definitely not a writer

He swipes, screenshots cascade. Headlines screaming about ‘subversive symbolism,’ forums dissecting the shade of red ("Communist Scarlet?" one asks hysterically), trending hashtags like #KarinaBetrayal and #RedScareIdol.

"The engagement metrics—they’re not just high. They’re pathological. Algorithms birthing hydras."

Karina shifts on the deep leather sofa, the buttery material suddenly clinging, suffocating. Her own phone, silenced but vibrating incessantly in her blazer pocket, feels like a live grenade ready to explode. She keeps her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. 

"It was just a jacket," she says, the words sounding flimsy even to her own ears. "Downtime. Sunlight. That’s all." 

She’d worn red. That’s it. Not a flag, not a manifesto. Just cloth against skin on a random Tuesday afternoon.

He sighs, a long, weary exhalation that stirs the stiff petals of the mini-orchid on the desk. "Perception is reality in this industry. You know this. What you see as downtime, the internet sees as a coded broadcast. A declaration." 

Leaning forward, elbows on knees, his gaze sharpens despite the exhaustion lining his face. "The indifferent are drowned out. The disappointed are vocal. The angry—they mobilize. They remember. They hold onto things like barnacles." 

There’s no need to specify what ‘things.’ The dating scandal with Lee Jae Wook—the carefully managed reveal, the tidal wave of fan vitriol, the weeks of bowed heads and postponed and cancelled schedules—hangs between them, a ghost at the feast. SM had navigated that minefield. Barely. 

"This—this feels different. More—political. More volatile. It sticks to the group, not just you. aespa’s brand is futurism and innovation. Not—partisan mudslinging."

Their comeback looms like a storm cloud on the horizon. Recording finished. Choreography polished to a lethal edge. Concept photos locked. Millions invested. Momentum is a fragile, humming entity, susceptible to the slightest tremor. 

Except this isn’t a tremor; it’s a goddamn magnitude 9 earthquake.

"The post is down," Karina states flatly. She’d complied hours ago, the deletion feeling like an unnecessary bodily amputation. A concession to a madness she couldn’t comprehend. "Damage control is underway. Apologies drafted—" 

She trails off. Empty words against a digital wildfire.

Her manager shakes his head. A slow, decisive movement. "Deleting it just fuels the conspiracy theorists. Makes it look like guilt. Like we’re hiding something. Standard apologies sound hollow against this level of—interpretation." 

He steeples his fingers. "The timing is catastrophic. We need something stronger. Faster. A—reset."

Pausing, contemplating the next course of action, the air thickens further. Karina feels a prickle of unease crawl up her spine, colder than the rain-chilled glass behind her. His eyes hold a calculating glint she recognizes from previous crises, now edged with something harder, more desperate.

"There are channels," he begins, choosing his words with the precision of a bomb defuser. "Networks. Influential individuals who understand how to—recalibrate public perception. Especially when the usual methods seem insufficient." 

He doesn’t look at her directly now, his gaze fixed on the distorted cityscape. "Individuals who helped—smooth things over considerably last year. During the Jae Wook situation."

Karina’s breath catches. The ‘help’ during the dating scandal had been opaque, swift, and terrifyingly effective. Overnight, the most vicious forums went quiet. Key influencers shifted their narratives. It had felt less like PR and more like a silent, surgical strike. She’d been grateful, then. Too relieved to question the scalpel’s origin. Now, the memory curdles.

"You mean the fixers," replies Karina, her tone low. The term hangs in the air, blunt and ugly. "The ones who trade in favours with people who—own things. People in rooms without windows." 

Her grandmother’s stern face flashes in her mind: a woman who recited ancestral prayers every morning, who valued modesty, propriety, and had a clear line between right and wrong. The world he was hinting at was the antithesis of that. It was the whispered-about underbelly, the gilded cages, the transactions disguised as dinners. Escorts. Companions. A different kind of stage, a whole other world of an audience.

He flinches almost imperceptibly at the crudity. "I mean, individuals with significant reach. Who can communicate directly with platforms, with media gatekeepers, even—shape certain bureaucratic priorities. They understand the levers of influence. They can make this," he gestures dismissively at the tablet displaying the digital maelstrom, "disappear. Like it never happened. Redirect the conversation entirely. In time for the comeback."

The implication is a tangible weight, pressing down on her delicate chest. Communicate. Shape priorities. Euphemisms as thin as tissue paper. She knows the stories, the rumors that swirled like suffocating fog around other agencies, other names. Young actors suddenly cast in prestige dramas after being seen leaving exclusive clubs with much older, powerful men and high ranking political figures. Idols’ DUI charges vanishing from news cycles overnight. Favors rendered. Debts incurred. The price was rarely monetary.

"I was raised," Karina insists, the words scraping her throat, "to understand boundaries. To respect myself. My family—" She thinks of her mother’s quiet pride, her father’s protective sternness. "This—side of things. The companionship." She spits the word flatly. "It’s not something I can entertain. It’s not who I am." 

Her conservatism isn’t just about attending church on holidays; it’s a steadfast belief in integrity, in keeping certain parts of oneself sacred, untouched by the grubby commerce of influence. The industry demanded much, but this—this feels like selling her soul wholesale.

Her manager’s expression hardens. The veneer of the concerned figure cracks, revealing the steel beneath. "Karina, please understand the position. This isn’t just about you anymore. This is about Winter, Giselle, Ningning. Their careers. Their futures. The years of training, the sacrifices they made. This comeback isn't just a song; it’s the lifeline for the group. A prolonged hiatus now, while this festers? It kills our momentum stone dead. The public moves on. Fans find new obsessions, new groups to cling to. You know how fast the tide turns in this industry."

He leans closer, his voice dropping, intense. "This ‘inner circle’—their help is swift, decisive. A single meeting. A conversation. That’s all that’s being suggested. An introduction. To a man who understands—image realignment."

"A conversation," Karina echoes, the word tasting like pigshit. With a man whose power stemmed from trafficking in human favors. Whose ‘understanding’ of image realignment likely involved trading access to beautiful young people for influence. The thought makes her nauseate. She pictures a faceless figure in a shadowed room, the air thick with cigar smoke and unspoken demands. The red jacket felt trivial compared to the stain this would leave—on her body, on her dignity.

The faces of her members flash before her eyes: Winter’s firm determination, Giselle’s vibrant energy, Ningning’s quiet wit. Their trust. Their shared dreams stacked precariously atop this comeback. And then, the ghost of her own past mistake: the personal lapse that became a public scandal, the burden she’d already forced them to carry. The lingering guilt is a familiar ache, a constant companion.

Lee Jae Wook’s face surfaces. The stolen moments, the genuine affection overshadowed by the eruption of fan entitlement and corporate damage control. SM, with their unseen ‘inner networks,’ had made that go away. Cleanly. Efficiently. Painfully. They’d done it once. They were offering the same brutal solution now. A different price, extracted from a different part of her.

Rebellion is a silent scream breaking from inside her chest. Every fibre of her being, every lesson from her grandmother, every instinct screams ‘no.’ To walk into that enticing lure, even for a ‘conversation,’ feels like stepping onto a path with no return. It’s the industry’s rot, the part she’d vowed to never touch.

But the thought of Winter, Giselle, and Ningning—they ground her. The memory of their shared exhaustion after a 20-hour practice, their whispered hopes for the new song, the weight of their collective ambition. And the crushing weight of knowing she caused this. Her jacket. Her downtime. Her innocent post that became a political football. The rock is her conscience, her values, the person she was raised to be. The hard place is the potential ruin of not just her career, but the dreams of three others who trusted her.

The manager watches her, his gaze unreadable. He sees the conflict raging behind her carefully composed mask, the slight tremble in her clasped hands. He doesn’t push; doesn’t need to. Pressure is a physical thing.

Karina closes her eyes. Just for a second. She sees the red jacket, beautiful and soft, now a symbol of everything gone wrong, now bathed in her own blood. She sees the relentless scroll of online hate. The comeback posters defaced digitally, the music ignored because of the noise surrounding the messenger. She sees disappointment, not anger, in her members' eyes if it all crumbles because she refused the only lifeline offered.

The words that leave her lips are thin and brittle, carried away by the hum of the air conditioning almost before they’re spoken. They taste like defeat. Like a slow poison.

"Fine." She opens her eyes, meeting her manager’s gaze. There’s no relief in his expression, only grim acceptance. "Set up the meeting."

Karina looks out at the distorted neon lights of Gangnam, the city that built her dreams and now demanded her sacrifice. The red jacket was gone from her feed, but the stain, she knew, was just beginning to spread, in a way no digital deletion could ever erase. She had agreed to meet the rot. For the sake of the light. The price remained terrifyingly unknown. Her phone vibrates again in her pocket, a relentless reminder of the world waiting outside, already judging. She doesn’t reach for it. 

The jacket had been beautiful. That was all. That was everything. And now it was gone.

—————

The phone’s shrill bleat is a shiv to the temple. It claws through the syrupy haze of near-sleep, the warm, dark cocoon where limbs are tangled and breaths syncopate. 

Giselle’s leg, smooth and heavy, is thrown possessively over your hip, her face buried in the crook of your neck, exhaling tiny, warm puffs against your skin that smell faintly of expensive bourbon and her shampoo—something clean and green, like crushed stems. The sheets are a battlefield of silk, kicked low around your waist. Her hand rests, limp and trusting, on your bare chest, right over the steady thump beneath. 

Peace. A rare, stolen thing.

The noise shatters it. Again. Insistent. Metronomic.

You groan, a low rumble in your chest that vibrates against Giselle’s forehead. She stirs, mumbling something unintelligible, slurred with sleep, burrowing deeper. Her fingers twitch against your sternum; reaching for the nightstand feels like moving through wet cement. Your arm is leaden, trapped partly under the delicious weight of her. You fumble, blind, knocking over a half-empty glass of water—the clink sharp in the quiet—before your fingers finally close around the cold, sleek rectangle of the burner phone. 

Luminary-issued. Always on. Always priority.

You bring it to your ear without looking, your throat thick with sleep and the lingering residue of—well, her. 

"Yeah?"

The voice on the other end is crisp, professional, devoid of any identifying accent. It doesn’t need one. You know the source: SM Entertainment’s panic room, filtered through layers of deniability, landing directly in your ear. You picture Park, aespa’s manager since their company-wide restructuring two years ago, or maybe the higher-up whose name you deliberately forget, sweating in that lemon-polish scented office.

A pause. Then, a rapid-fire summary. You listen, your eyes adjusting to the pre-dawn gloom filtering through the expensive blackout curtains that never quite seal perfectly. Giselle sighs softly against your neck, her breath hitching slightly. You absentmindedly trace the ridge of her shoulder blade with your thumb.

"Really?" you yawn, the word barely more than an exhale. 

Your thumb stills on Giselle’s skin. The situation with the red jacket. The predictable, hysterical backlash. The impending comeback cratering before launch. The desperation. It’s all laid out, cold and efficient. You knew, of course. Luminary knows everything before the players even realize they’re on the board. But the formal request—that’s procedure. Standard protocol. That’s the dance.

A longer pause as the voice details the proposed—solution. The one they always propose when the usual damage control fails. The only solution they have access to. You can almost smell their fear through the line. Fear of failure. Fear of lost revenue. Fear of the faceless entity he’s petitioning.

"Understood." Your voice is clearer now, the sleep fading away, replaced by familiar, numbing detachment. 

The gears click into place. This is your terrain. Your ecosystem.

Another burst of anxious explanation from the other end. Reassurances sought. Timelines questioned.

You cut through it all. "This is no issue." Your tone is flat, final. Dismissive. Like swatting a pestering fly. "We’ll sort it out. Like we always do."

A beat of stunned silence, then a flurry of relieved, obsequious gratitude. You don’t wait for it to finish. You thumb the disconnect button, the silence rushing back in, louder than the call. The phone drops back onto the nightstand with a soft thud.

Giselle shifts. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark in the dim light, blink open. She peers up at you, sleep still clinging to her lashes. "Who was that?" 

Her tone is husky, sleep-roughened, sending a familiar curl of heat low in your belly. She stretches languidly against you, a cat uncoiling, the silk sheet slipping further to reveal the elegant dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. The memory of how that part felt beneath your hands, moving with you just hours ago, remains vivid till now.

"Your company," you say, your hand drifting back to her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the warm skin. "Panicking. As usual."

She makes a soft, dismissive noise in her throat, nuzzling back into your neck. "Mm. Idiots. What now? Another dating 'scandal' they need buried? Forgotten merch deal?" 

Her fingers trail lazy circles on your chest, dipping lower, teasing the edge of the sheet. Her touch is fire and promise, a stark counterpoint to the cold transaction just concluded.

"Bigger," you drawl, tilting your head to capture her earlobe gently between your teeth. She shivers, a full-body tremor you feel against your side. "Your leader. Karina."

Giselle stills. Not much, just a fractional pause in the movement of her fingers. Her breath hitches again, but differently this time. Less haze, more—awareness. She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. Her dark eyes search yours in the gloom. "Karina-unnie? What did she do?"

You recount it drily, your thumb resuming its slow path along her spine. "Started innocent enough. Posted a picture. Red jacket. Downtime. Sunlight. The internet, being the feral beast it is, decided it was an open declaration of political allegiance dropped via Instagram. SM is having kittens. Comeback’s on the brink."

She snorts, a surprisingly sharp, un-idol-like sound. "Seriously? Over a jacket? People need hobbies." But the amusement fades almost immediately, replaced by a flicker of something else. Concern, maybe resignation. "So—panic call. They want the usual fix." 

"The only fix they can access," you correct, dropping lower. Your hand slides from her waist, tracing the inward curve, down over the swell of her hip, fingers dipping beneath the loose sheet. She arches into the touch instinctively, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "They want her—introduced. To the solution."

Giselle’s breath catches audibly. She doesn’t pull away from your touch, but her body tenses slightly beneath your fingers. "Karina? They want Karina to—meet?" 

Meet. Such a benign term for the deeper suggestion, the velvet-lined transaction.

"She won’t. She’s—" Giselle searches for the word. "Stubborn. Conservative. Thinks this side of things is—dirty." There’s no judgment in her tone, just statement. Fact. "She’s never been interested. Not like—" 

It trails off, but the implication is clear. Not like the rest of us.

Your fingers continue their exploration, mapping familiar territory, stoking the embers that never truly die between you. Luminary made this possible. This easy access to her warmth, her sharp wit, her body yielding against yours night after night since aespa’s world tour ended and the relentless idol machine paused. 

It’s one of the perks of being one of their coveted Tier 4: Ascendant. A step right below the mythic, unseen Tier 5, whispered about only as "By Invitation Only." Ascendant means priority. It means your choice pick of Luminary’s curated galaxy. It means frequent access to Giselle, Winter, Ningning—their names appearing on your exclusive roster with satisfying regularity. 

It also means doors opening that aren't even visible to governments. SM Entertainment—they were ants scurrying at the base of Luminary’s impenetrable tower. Their frantic call was a mosquito buzz against hurricane glass.

"People change their minds," you hush against her temple, breathing in her warm, gooey scent. "Especially when their world is crumbling. Especially when the alternative is watching years of work, the careers of the people they love—" you emphasize the word, your hand tightening slightly on her hip, "—turn to dust over something as stupid as the color red."

Giselle shivers again, but it’s not entirely from your touch this time. "She has principles," she remarks, though it sounds less of a defense and more like a lament.

"Principles are luxuries," you counter, a low hum in the quiet room. "Expensive ones. The world Luminary moves in—it doesn’t run on principles. It runs on influence. On access. On the quiet application of power that makes presidents nervous and NGOs look like children playing in a sandbox." 

You think of the dossier Luminary maintains: their top-secret servers and hidden bunkers, thicker than any national intelligence file. Not just cleaning up celebrity scandals, but corporate takeovers smoothed by a well-placed companion at a crucial negotiation. Environmental regulations ‘reconsidered’ after a discreet weekend retreat for key legislators hosted by Luminary talents. Humanitarian aid suddenly flowing to a forgotten conflict zone—conveniently after Luminary facilitated the ‘asset reallocation’ of a troublesome warlord. They didn’t just offer companionship; they offered geopolitical realignment wrapped in silk and smiles. The UN issued reports; Luminary issued realities. 

SM’s little idol scandal was beneath trivial. It was a rounding error. But it was your rounding error to handle. Your Ascendant prerogative.

You feel Giselle processing it. The sheer, terrifying scale of the machine she’s a part of. A willing part. A thriving part. She knows the perks: the security, the connections, the insulation from the worst of the industry’s sharks. She also knows the price, paid in autonomy, in secrecy, in the quiet surrender to being a beautiful, talented asset in Luminary’s endless, shimmering pool.

"I’m meeting with her," you confirm, the statement simple, inevitable. Your fingers have found their way back to the sensitive skin just below her navel, drawing slow, deliberate circles. She trembles, a low moan catching in her throat, her earlier tension dissolving under the renewed heat of your touch. 

Her body remembers the night. Craves its echo. Loves thinking about the way you rocked her—every thrust, every jolt, every smack.

Giselle’s eyes flutter closed for a second, her head tipping back, exposing the long line of her throat. 

"Karina—" she breathes, her name a sigh tangled with desire and a thread of something like pity. Or maybe foresight. "She’ll fight it. Tooth and nail."

A slow smile touches your lips. You lean down, your mouth brushing the pulse point hammering beneath the delicate skin of her neck. She gasps, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair. 

"Let her fight," you mumble, the words vibrating against her skin. "It makes the surrender all the more sweeter." 

Your other hand slides further down, beneath the sheet, seeking the heat you know is waiting. "Luminary gets them all eventually, Aeri. Every single one. The holdouts just make the most interesting—acquisitions."

She cries out then, a sharp, beautiful sound as your fingers find their mark, her body arching off the mattress, pressing desperately into your touch. The phone call, SM’s typical panic, Karina’s impending crisis—it all recedes, drowned out by the immediate, visceral reality of Giselle coming undone once more beneath your hands, here in this expensive, anonymous bedroom, courtesy of the invisible hand that moved mountains and managed figures with equal, chilling ease. 

Luminary provided. Luminary protected. Luminary consumed.

And as for Karina: she was just the next course on the Ascendant’s menu. Her precious principles would melt like sugar in the rain under the heat of Luminary’s inexorable gravity. You’d make sure of it. Like you always did. Not for the company, but for the cruel, cold satisfaction of the game. For the power humming in your Tier 4 veins.

—————

The air in Karina’s private SM office brims with unspoken dread. She sits rigid behind a minimalist desk, back straight as a ruler, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles are bloodless islands in a sea of pale skin. 

She wears black: sleek trousers, a high-necked blouse. Armor against the world, against you, and the forces you represent. 

The infamous red jacket is nowhere to be seen. Banished. Erased. Like the Instagram post. 

You lean back in the visitor’s chair, the expensive leather sighing softly. Your posture is relaxed, almost indolent, a complete 180 to her coiled tension. You’ve seen this tableau countless times: the talented, the beautiful, the cornered. The office window offers a panorama of Seoul’s gleaming spires, but your focus is entirely on the woman radiating controlled fury across the polished teak.

"Standard procedure, Karina," you begin, devoid of the corporate bluster she’s likely braced for. No manager to intercede on her behalf this time. This is direct. Tier 4 to prospective talent. "Lay it out. In your own words. The situation. The—predicament." 

You gesture vaguely, encompassing the digital storm raging beyond these soundproofed walls.

She doesn’t flinch. Her dark eyes, sharp and intelligent beneath the perfectly styled fringe, lock onto yours. There’s no fear there, not yet. Just a simmering resentment, a profound distaste. For you. For what you represent. For the necessity of this meeting. 

"You know," she states, flatly. Not a question. "You all know. That’s the point, isn’t it? Luminary knows everything."

You incline your head, a fractional nod. Acknowledgement, not apology. "Indulge me. Perspective is valuable. Humor the process."

A muscle ticks in her jaw. She takes a breath, short and controlled. "I wore a red jacket. I took a picture. I posted it. It was—our downtime. Sunlight. Nothing more. The internet—" 

She pauses, searching for a word worthy of the absurdity. "—conjured a political manifesto. SM panicked. Took it down. Made it worse. Now the comeback—our comeback—is drowning in this manufactured outrage." 

Her voice remains level, professional, but the undercurrent is pure, undiluted frustration. "And they sent me to you. The ‘solution.’”

You watch the elegant line of her neck, the stubborn set of her shoulders. The aggressive, almost archaic sense of propriety that radiates from her like a force field. It’s admirable. And, in this context, utterly futile. 

"Manufactured outrage requires manufactured solutions," you agree smoothly. "Luminary specializes in recalibration. We can make this vanish. Redirect the narrative. Ensure your comeback launches—unimpeded." 

You let the promise hang, potent and dangerous.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. "At what cost?"

Here it is. The pivot. The velvet-gloved ultimatum. 

You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on your knees, your expression shifting from detached observer to corporate emissary. The mask of the Ascendant client slips; the Luminary representative in you takes the stage. 

"Luminary’s assistance requires—unified alignment. Total commitment. A reciprocal understanding." 

You meet her eyes, your own cool, implacable. "First obligation: You join the talent pool. Tier 3. Esteemed. Where your fellow members already reside."

Karina’s breath hitches, almost imperceptibly. You see the revulsion flash in her eyes: the visceral recoil from the very idea of being cataloged, commodified, made available in Luminary’s expansive catalog alongside Giselle, Winter, and Ningning. The dark side of the industry she vowed never to touch. 

"No," she whispers, the word an evident crack in her composure. Then, stronger, firmer, "Absolutely not."

You don’t react to the refusal; you anticipated it. Most unwilling clientele fight back—initially. Until they’re cornered into submission by the higher powers that be, or in this case, the court of public opinion.

"Second obligation," you continue, as if she hadn’t said anything, "You convince SM Entertainment to send you to Waterbomb next month. Solo."

Her eyes widen slightly. Waterbomb. The infamous festival. A riot of water guns, soaked crowds, revelry bordering on chaos. Known for its—liberated atmosphere. Performers letting loose, often in revealing outfits, playing into the wet, wild fantasy. The antithesis of her carefully controlled, conservative image. A calculated exposure. 

"Solo?" she echoes, disbelief spliced with dawning horror. "You want me to—perform alone? At that event?"

"Participate," you correct. "Immersion is key. Be seen. Be—approachable. Human. Not the pristine idol caught in a political crossfire. An image reset." 

The unspoken implication hangs heavy: Let them see the body they’ve been debating. Let them see it wet, bouncing around, having fun. Distract them.

"And the rest?" she demands, tight, laced with a growing fury. "What other—obligations does Luminary demand? What else do you want to leverage from this?" She spits the words. "You’re exploiting this. Using SM’s panic, my—my mistake—for your own gain. For Luminary’s roster." 

The accusation is sharp, direct. She sees the transaction, naked and ugly.

You hold her furious gaze. There’s no anger in your response, only a detached, almost weary pragmatism. "Exploitation implies imbalance, Karina. This is commerce. Influence rendered, payment required. Luminary doesn’t hand out freebies." 

You let the silence stretch for a beat, let the weight of your next statement land. "We certainly didn’t last year. With Lee Jae Wook."

The effect is instantaneous; all color drains from her face. Her rigid posture slackens for a fraction of a second, complete shock punching through the anger. 

The dating scandal. The meticulously managed fallout that had felt like divine intervention at the time. The silence bought, the narratives steered away from career-altering ruin. "That—that was you?" 

The question is a broken whisper. Her fundamental understanding of that crisis crumbles. It wasn’t SM’s prowess or—competence (for lack of a better term); it was Luminary. A debt secretly incurred in the shadows.

"Luminary," you confirm, soft but inexorable. "We smoothed the edges. We contained the blast radius. We protected you. We protected aespa." You lean back again, the movement deliberate. "We always collect our dues, Yu Jimin. Always. Sometimes the collection is immediate. Sometimes," you gesture towards her, "it waits for the opportune moment. The moment when the leverage is—absolute."

The office feels suddenly colder, smaller. Outside, the gleaming cityscape feels like a painted backdrop. Karina looks down at her clasped hands, the fight momentarily knocked out of her by the revelation. The debt existed long before the red jacket. The rot, as she saw it, had already touched her; she just hadn’t known its name or understood its true form. 

"Tier 3—Waterbomb—" she quietly notes, the words sounding like blasphemy from her mouth, "And then? What comes after? What are the ‘rest?’”

"That," you say, a faint, unreadable smile touching your lips, "will follow. Once the current issue is resolved to Luminary’s satisfaction. Consider it—deferred compensation. Trust in the process." 

The unspoken, ambiguous nature is intentional, a hook buried deep. The unknown future obligation is a more potent shackle than any specific demand.

Karina looks up, her eyes searching yours again. But the fury has banked, replaced by an acute weariness, a dawning realization of the cage’s dimensions. 

"Why?" she asks, the question straightforward. "Why push this? Why me? You have Giselle. You have the others. Why force me into—this?" 

There’s a flicker of something else beneath the resignation: a desperate need to understand the why of her personal unraveling.

The question surprises you, slightly. It’s personal. Not about the transaction, but the target. You consider her: the cautious intelligence. The stubborn adherence to a code in a world that laughs at morals. The quiet dignity she represents, even now, under siege. 

"Giselle is—enjoyable. Very frisky. A dopamine rush in the dark," you candidly admit. "But you—" You pause, genuinely assessing her, "You were always the favorite, Karina. Even when I was tangled up with Gigi most nights since the tour ended." 

You see the slight flinch at the casual mention of her member’s involvement. "It’s not just the face. Not just the body everyone argues about online." You gesture vaguely towards the invisible internet storm. "It’s the steel. The—integrity. The way you hold yourself apart. Or try to." 

Your tone holds no mockery, only a detached observation. "I respect it. Truly. It’s rare. Admirable, even."

Her eyes widen slightly at the admission, the unexpected sliver of recognition—empathy, maybe—throwing her further off balance.

"But," you continue, the softness in your cadence evaporating, replaced by the inevitable finality of the corporate calculus, "admiration doesn’t pay Luminary’s dividends. Principles don’t silence trending hashtags or salvage nine-figure comebacks. Your integrity is a luxury SM cannot afford, and frankly, neither can you. Not anymore. Not after the jacket. Not after the debt called in.

The path forward is clear. Tier 3. Waterbomb. The rest—it’ll be saved for after this is all cleared. Or—" 

You let the alternative hang, heavy and suffocating, "You walk out that door. You face the storm. You watch the comeback implode. You watch Winter, Giselle, Ningning pay the price for your red jacket and your—principles." 

There’s little need to elaborate on the consequences for her own career. She knows what’s at stake here.

Karina stares past you, not at the glittering city, but at some internal abyss. You see the fight behind her eyes: the ingrained conservatism faced against the crushing weight of responsibility, of guilt, of the debt she never knew she owed. The image of her members—Winter’s focused intensity, Giselle’s sharp humor, Ningning’s vibrant energy—flickers across her face. 

You see the exact moment the steel bends. Not breaks, but folds. 

The proud line of her shoulders dips, almost imperceptibly. The light in her eyes dims, replaced by a hollow resignation. The fight leaks out of her, replaced by the crushing weight of necessity. The rock of her principles, the hard place of her group’s survival. 

She chose the group; she chose their future.

Karina looks back at you, her gaze now shuttered, opaque. The vulnerability is gone, walled away behind a mask of cool professionalism that mirrors your own. A transaction accepted. 

"Tier 3," she states, flat, devoid of inflection. A statement, not a question.

You nod once. "Esteemed."

"Waterbomb. Solo." 

Another statement. Each word costs her a piece of her soul.

"Convince SM. Luminary will ensure the invitation is—persuasive." 

You don’t specify how.

She takes a slow, deliberate breath, as if steeling herself. "And the rest?"

"Will be communicated. In due course." 

You hold her gaze, acknowledging the leap into the unknown she’s being forced to take.

A beat. Two. The sterile air crackles with the energy of a deal struck in hell. Then, slowly, deliberately, Karina unfolds her hands. She pushes her chair back and stands. Her movements are precise, economical. She walks around the desk, each step measured on the plush carpet. 

She stops before you, extending her right hand. Not subserviently. Not pleadingly. But as an equal entering a binding, if abhorrent, contract. A general surrendering with dignity.

You rise, matching her height. You look into her eyes: the anger banked, the principles submerged, but not extinguished. There’s a flicker of something else now, beneath the resignation: a wary assessment, the beginning of a recalibration. 

You take her hand. Her grip is firm, cool, dry. No tremor. A soldier’s handshake. Yours is equally firm, a businessman’s seal.

The handshake lasts precisely three seconds. A transaction ratified. Her entry into Luminary’s glittering cage formally initiated. Her principles sacrificed on the altar of group survival and a debt called due. There is only the contract, the debt paid, and the unsettling certainty that Luminary, once again, has claimed what it was owed.

—————

The proposal slides across the manager’s desk like an unassuming piece of corporate driftwood. Karina watches his eyes scan the document outlining her ‘exclusive sponsorship opportunity’ with Sprite at Waterbomb. His brow, perpetually furrowed these days, smooths fractionally. 

"Sprite, huh?" he murmurs, tapping the logo. "Good brand alignment. Waterbomb’s chaotic, but the exposure—it’s significant. Solo spotlight right along with the group comeback? Could be—strategic." Glancing up, a flicker of genuine, weary relief touches his eyes. "They approached us?"

Karina forces a neutral nod, the calculated lie settling like a forbidden curse on her tongue. "Their regional marketing head reached out. Looked past the—recent discourse. Thought it presented a unique moment for brand-human synergy." 

Luminary’s crafted jargon sounds alien. Synergy. As if Sprite’s algorithms and tested focus groups spontaneously generated this lifeline, not the invisible hand of a Tier 4 Ascendant pulling strings in the shadows. 

They easily buy it; the outcome was rather expected. Luminary’s influence doesn’t announce itself; it simply arranges the red carpet and walks on its chosen path. Companies became compliant partners, their executives unknowing actors in a larger, darker production.

"Approved," he says, stamping the form with finality. "Good initiative, Karina. Turning a negative into a platform. That’s the spirit." 

His praise feels like salt rubbed into the wound of her capitulation. The first obligation—Waterbomb, alone, drenched and on display—is locked in. The second, her silent enrollment in Luminary’s Tier 3 talent pool, hums like a live wire beneath her skin, unseen but omnipresent. She leaves his office feeling hollow, the sterile lemon-polish air of the room clinging to her like a shroud.

The obligations follow her into the mirrored cavern of the SM practice room. The relentless thumping of the comeback song, normally a pulse syncing them together, now feels like a countdown. She watches her reflection: sharp, precise movements, expression meticulously calibrated to fierce determination. Beside her, Winter executes a complex spin with icy perfection, Giselle lands a powerful jump with a playful smirk, Ningning’s vocals slice through the bass with crystalline clarity. 

They move as one, a well-oiled machine.

Yet, Karina’s focus fractures. Her gaze snags on Giselle’s hand, braced against the floor during a low sweep. She imagines those fingers tangled in different sheets, tracing different contours. Her eyes flick to Winter’s concentrated profile. He must have drawn that same intense focus from her in a dim bedroom. Maybe Ningning’s bright laugh echoed differently for him.

The thought is intrusive: He’s had them all. Countless times, between comeback periods and especially during their extended hiatus. Fucked them to pieces, then sent them back here, smiling. Luminary’s corporate calculus extended to their bodies, their intimacies, traded like stock. Now, she was part of the portfolio.

During a water break, the question claws its way out, sharper than intended.

"What’s he like?" asks Karina, grabbing a towel, carefully casual, aimed at no one and everyone. "The—sponsor. The Sprite connection." 

A flimsy cover, but necessary. 

Ningning beams, oblivious, wiping her neck. "Oh! The Sprite guy who met with PD-nim? Super nice! Quiet, but polite. Brought those fancy Japanese melons for the staff last week, remember?" She takes a long gulp of water. "Super respectful."

Winter, stretching her hamstring against the barre, adds in her measured tone, "He’s efficient. Gets things done without unnecessary fuss. Knows the industry inside out. Very—professional." 

There’s no flicker of deeper knowledge in her cool eyes. Just a factual assessment of a useful contact.

Giselle, leaning against the mirrored wall, watches Karina. Her dark eyes hold a complex mix: understanding, shared history, silent warning signs. She knows exactly which ‘he’ Karina means. She pushes off the wall, her tone light but layered. 

"Yeah. Proper gentleman. Until he’s not." 

A ghost of a smirk touches her lips. "Knows how to make things—happen. Thoroughly." 

She meets Karina’s gaze directly for a split second. The word hangs, heavy with unspoken meaning. 

Thoroughly. Bold in bed. Freaky, even. A gentleman who shed propriety behind closed doors. He wasn’t just a shadowy fixer; he was a man who knew her members rather intimately, and they spoke of him with—great appreciation. Respect, even borderline affection, tangled with the transactional nature of his profession.

Karina looks away, focusing on retying her shoe, her fingers trembling slightly. The dissonance is jarring. The monster forcing her into gilded servitude is, to her closest sisters, a ‘proper gentleman’ who got things done and apparently, got them off. 

Where was the coercion they must have felt? The revulsion she battled? Was the cage so comfortable once you stopped rattling the bars? 

The thought sickens her. Her resistance, her precious principles, were likely out of naivety, or the very definition of judging a book by its cover.

Practice grinds on. Karina throws herself into the choreography, the punishing physicality a welcome distraction from the churn of her thoughts. She matches Winter’s icy precision, mirrors Giselle’s powerful swagger, harmonizes perfectly with Ningning. But inside, she feels fractured. The obligations coil tighter: Waterbomb’s impending spectacle, the invisible brand of ‘Esteemed’ seared onto her Luminary profile, the terrifying vagueness of ‘the rest.’ 

And overlaying it all, the image of him: detached, empathetic in his chilling way, the architect of her surrender. The man who respected her steel even as he methodically melted it down for the company forge.

Later, slumped in the back of the van heading to the dorm, the city lights streaking past the tinted windows, her body aches with exhaustion. The other members chatter softly: Ningning about a new game, Winter about vocal exercises, Giselle humming a snippet of the track. Normalcy, fragile and precious. 

Karina closes her eyes, seeking a moment’s peace.

Her personal phone buzzes in her sweatpants pocket. Not the Luminary burner; her real one. 

A cold dread trickles down her spine. She pulls it out.

The screen illuminates her tired face in the dim van. A single message. From an unknown number, but the origin is terrifyingly obvious.

> Situation recalibration proceeding on schedule. Sprite integration confirmed. Waterbomb parameters secured. Maintain focus on group preparations. Your commitment to the Tier 3 Esteemed status is noted. Remember the binding nature of our arrangement. Clarity on subsequent obligations will follow resolution. Proceed accordingly.

No signature. No unnecessary words. Just cold, efficient reminders of the chains. The Sprite lie laid bare as his handiwork. The Waterbomb trap sprung. Her ‘Esteemed’ status acknowledged like a stock ticker. And the ever-present threat of "the rest," dangling like a sword. 

Karina’s thumb hovers over the screen. The urge to smash it against the window, to scream, to rip the invisible contract to shreds, is a binding pressure in her chest. She glances sideways, away from judging, prying eyes. Giselle is watching her reflection in the window, her expression unreadable in the passing streetlights. Winter and Ningning are lost in their own worlds.

She doesn’t reply; doesn’t delete the message. She simply locks the screen, the cold glow extinguishing, leaving her face shrouded in shadow. The message sits there, unread, unchecked. A digital shackle. A reminder that the shadows are always watching, and the man who moves within them, the ‘proper gentleman’ who dismantled lives and controlled reputations with absolute ease, owns a piece of her now.

—————

The roar of the crowd vibrates through the soles of Karina’s stage boots, a physical echo of the digital tsunami Luminary orchestrated. The political firestorm ignited by a red jacket—extinguished. Smothered beneath a meticulously engineered wave of positive press, strategic influencer endorsements, and algorithmically boosted adoration for aespa’s comeback. 

The music show trophy, cold and heavy in Winter’s grasp backstage, is less a victory and more a receipt. Proof of Luminary’s terrifying efficiency. The scandal didn’t fade; it was deleted from existence. Karina stands amidst the confetti-strewn chaos feeling like an imposter draped in borrowed triumph. Her members radiate genuine, exhausted elation: Giselle’s arm slung around Ningning’s shoulders, Winter’s usually stoic face softened by a rare, wide smile. She forces her lips into the appropriate curve, the muscles protesting. 

The win feels hollow, purchased.

Her personal phone, tucked into the waistband of her stage shorts beneath the sparkly crop top, buzzes. Not the celebratory kind. A cold dread pools in her stomach even before she glimpses the screen in the cramped, bustling dressing room.

> Congratulations on the win. Well-deserved momentum. Remember your solo engagement tomorrow. Luminary anticipates fulfillment. Attire options attached. Choose wisely.

Attached are five images. Not Sprite-branded green or yellow monstrosities, but sleek, designer pieces curated with predatory precision. A deep black one-piece cut high on the thigh, backless. A barely-there bandeau top paired with microscopic shorts in neon green mesh. A draped crimson halter that promises strategic reveals with every splash. All ‘sexy yet classy’ in the way only a Tier 4 Ascendant, who trafficked in the aesthetics of desire, could define it. All guaranteed to make her the undisputed focal point of Waterbomb’s wet, raucous spectacle.

Karina’s reaction is near-explosive, bordering on screaming. She feels incredibly revulsed. She types swiftly, fingers stabbing the screen.

> Our stylist team has it covered. No need for your selections.

The reply is instantaneous, a ghostly echo in the noisy room.

> Really now? Let’s find out tomorrow.

It’s not a threat; it’s a statement of absolute certainty. Luminary didn’t make suggestions; it orchestrated realities.

The next morning, in the cool, clinical air of the styling salon, the chill deepens into icy disbelief. Karina stares at the garment bag unzipped before her. Nestled within, pristine and mocking, is the black one-piece. The same one from his text. The one with the thigh slit that promises too much and the back that promises nothing at all.

"No," Karina breathes, the word barely discernible over the hum of hair dryers. "This wasn’t—this isn’t on the approved list." She looks desperately at her head stylist, a woman usually religiously protective of her vision.

She beams, completely oblivious to her concern. "Surprise! Sprite’s regional lead overnighted this. Exclusive piece, just for you! Said it perfectly captures the ‘youthful energy synergy’ they want for Waterbomb. Isn’t it divine? Fits the ‘classy sexy’ brief perfectly." 

Holding it up, the dark fabric catches beneath the fluorescent lights, shimmering like captured moonlight. Or scales. "Go on, try it! It’s going to photograph incredibly wet."

Sprite’s regional lead. Karina’s blood runs cold. Another puppet. Another string pulled by the unseen hand in the shadows. Luminary hadn’t just suggested; it had inserted its choice into the very heart of SM’s apparatus. Resistance is not just futile; it’s anticipated, already circumvented in a number of ways. 

Reluctance fights with a crushing sense of inevitability. Disdain for the man who orchestrated this, for the garment itself. It violently curdles in her stomach. Yet, the faces of her members flash—their exhausted joy from last night, the comeback’s hard-won success resting precariously on Luminary’s continued goodwill. The unspoken threat of "the rest." 

With numb fingers, she takes the hanger.

Later, standing before a full-length mirror in a private prep area near Waterbomb grounds, Karina barely recognizes herself. The black one-piece does fit perfectly, clinging like a second layer of skin. It is classy, in a devastating, predatory way. The high-cut legs elongate her frame, the deep plunge in the back exposes a dramatic expanse of smooth skin, the shimmer makes her look sculpted, ethereal—and utterly exposed. It’s armor designed for surrender. She feels less like an idol and more like a sacrifice adorned for the altar. Distantly, the chaotic thump of festival music and the shrieks of the crowd filter through the walls.

Her phone buzzes on the vanity. The Luminary burner.

> Preparations successful? A visual confirmation would be appreciated. Consider it—quality assurance.

The audacity. The intimacy of the demand. 

Karina’s fingers curl into fists, the manicured nails biting into her palms. She wants to hurl the phone against the wall. Instead, she picks it up, her movements stiff, reluctant. Angling the camera at her face, capturing only the tense line of her jaw, the wary defiance in her eyes against the backdrop of the garish prep room lights. She sends it: a sliver of herself, still guarded.

> Confirmed.

The reply comes faster than her next heartbeat.

> The attire is the subject of interest, Karina, not the ceiling. Full frame. Please.

Please. The word is a velvet-wrapped scalpel. Charming. Firm. Utterly inescapable. 

He’s doing his job, Luminary’s detached emissary, ensuring their asset is presentation-ready. The kindness is the cruelest part—the reminder that this violation is merely business, only corporate calculus. He’s not a monster snarling; he’s a polite executive requesting compliance with a contract she signed in a lemon-scented office.

A wave of hot shame washes over her, followed by a colder fury. He did his part. Buried the scandal. Secured the win. Delivered the Sprite "sponsorship" and the outfit currently making her skin crawl in a tailor-made, curated package. Her part was Waterbomb. And, apparently, this. Proof of delivery.

Closing her eyes for a brief second, Karina steadies her breath. She holds the phone at arm's length, angling it down. The screen fills with the reflection: the shocking length of her legs emphasized by the black fabric, the narrow waist, the curve of her hips, the dramatic plunge of the back visible in the mirror behind her. She is a statue rendered in desire and obligation. She taps send before she can think, before she can vomit.

The response isn’t immediate. Seconds stretch, filled only by the muffled festival roar and the frantic hammering of her own heart. Then, three dots pulse. Pulse. Pulse. An eternity compressed into digital hesitation.

When the message finally appears, it’s uncharacteristically brief.

> Gorgeous.

Just one word. But Karina senses the crack in his professional facade as if it were verbal. The detachment momentarily breached. The Ascendant Tier 4, the master of corporate influence, momentarily reduced to a man staring at a screen, salivating. She pictures him, wherever his shadowy office is, leaning back, perhaps loosening his collar, his cool gaze igniting with a hunger that has nothing to do with filling up Luminary’s red ledgers. 

Then, the professional mask snaps back into place, the next message arriving swiftly, correcting course.

> Enjoy the festival, Karina. Fulfill your obligation with the professionalism expected of an idol with your talent and popularity. We will meet again soon to discuss—progression.

The kindness returns, edged now with a renewed, chilling firmness. The momentary lapse is over. The transaction continues. Progression. A euphemism that tastes like a threat. The "rest" looms.

A stylist knocks, her voice bright and urgent through the door. "Karina! Five minutes! They’re ready for you at the Sprite activation zone!"

Karina looks at her reflection one last time. The woman in the mirror looks back, beautiful, exposed, and bound. She picks up the oversized water gun provided by Sprite, its plastic cold and garish in her hand. A prop. Like her. Like the triumph, the trophy, the vanished scandal. All props in Luminary’s meticulously staged production.

She doesn’t reply to the last message. Instead, she simply turns, the dark fabric whispering like a secret against her skin, and walks towards the door, towards the roaring chaos of Waterbomb, towards the blinding flashes of cameras.

—————

The door clicks shut behind her. Silence swallows the hum of the building outside. Monday afternoon light cuts through the blinds of the SM executive office, striping the polished floor and the empty chair behind the imposing desk. Karina stands frozen just inside the threshold, her posture rigid, the carefully constructed mask of the leader momentarily slipping. She’d braced for the stern face of management, for the weight of another corporate reprimand layered atop the lingering shame. 

Not this. Never this.

You watch her. Seated not behind the desk of power, but casually angled in one of the visitor’s chairs beside it, an island of calm control in the corporate sea. Your suit is impeccable, charcoal grey absorbing the slatted light, a subtle contrast to the room's bland beige. One ankle rests on the opposite knee, fingers steepled lightly in your lap. The air conditioner whirs, the only sound besides the frantic, almost audible thrum of Karina’s pulse you imagine hammering against her ribs.

"Karina," you call with a smooth baritone, cutting the quiet like warm oil. It holds none of the bluster or weary frustration she’d expected. Only a disarming, calculated charm. "Please. Sit." 

You gesture to the chair opposite where you’re seated, the one meant for supplicants. "The higher-ups are—otherwise occupied. They asked me to convey their appreciation for your diligence throughout the comeback promotions. Exhausting, I imagine."

She doesn’t move. Her eyes, wide and dark as spilled ink, dart from your face to the empty executive chair, then back to you. Suspicion hardens the delicate line of her jaw. Her hands, clenched at her sides, are pale-knuckled. 

"They summoned me," she states, the words clipped, tight. A statement, not a question. A demand for explanation in this violation of expected protocol.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. Not unkind, merely acknowledging the chess move. "And they delegated. Consider me—a liaison. A more direct line, perhaps, given our recent—collaboration." 

You let the word hang, loaded, in the space between you. "The dust has settled, wouldn't you agree? The comeback was a success. SM’s coffers are happier. Your members are in a great place, as a group and individually." 

Tilting your head, you study her. The faint shadows under her eyes, the tension holding her shoulders taut. It’s a clear tell. "So tell me, Yu Jimin. Waterbomb. How was the experience?"

The question lands like a sucker punch, even if it were expected. Her breath hitches, a tiny, sharp sound swallowed by the room's stillness. Performing. The roar of the rowdy crowd, a brutal wave crashing over her. The unfamiliar freedom of going solo, stripped of her unit, her armor. The blinding lights, the sweat-slicked skin under the enforced black fabric that felt more like a brand than a costume. The adrenaline-fueled rush of owning that space, alone. And afterwards, the fleeting, unexpected choir of fan chants directed solely at her, Yu Jimin, not just Karina of aespa. 

"It was—" she starts, brittle, then stops. Her gaze drops to the striped pattern the light makes on the floor. Denial is her first shield. "It was a professional obligation. Fulfilled."

You lean forward slightly, the motion economical, purposeful. The leather of the chair sighs softly. "Professional obligations rarely leave one looking quite so—alive in the aftermath, Karina. Even through the carefully curated exhaustion." 

Your eyes hold hers, unwavering. There’s no judgment in your gaze, only a cool, analytical curiosity. Like a scientist observing a fascinating reaction. "The stage. The crowd. The physicality of it all. The connection. Tell me you felt nothing. Tell me it was merely a transaction, and I’ll believe you." 

A beat. 

"But we both know that would be a lie, wouldn’t it?"

The pressure is subtle, insidious. It’s not a demand, but an invitation to confess to a truth she desperately wants to bury. To acknowledge the pleasure feels like capitulation to the very forces that orchestrated it. Luminary’s invisible hand forcing her onto that stage, into that outfit, twisting her image. Yet—the memory of the energy, the performance high—it surges, unbidden, potent.

Her throat works. She looks away, towards the window framing a slice of Seoul’s relentless skyline. 

"It—" 

The sentence is cut off at the first word like a sudden, swift blade. She swallows, forces herself steadier, though it trembles at the edges. "There was—a moment. On stage. Just me. The music. The fans shouting my name—" 

She trails off, the admission sounding like sin. "It wasn't—entirely unpleasant. The performance itself." 

Snapping her gaze back to you, defiance flaring, she makes a desperate attempt to reclaim ground. "But that? The outfit? The context? That was your doing. Luminary’s manipulation. Don't confuse the act for the artifice."

A genuine spark of something flickers in your eyes: satisfaction, perhaps, or simple appreciation for the honesty wrung from her. 

"There it is," you reply, the smile deepening fractionally, revealing nothing of warmth, only acknowledgment of a point scored. "The performance. The unbound energy. That’s the core, isn’t it? That’s the Karina SM built, and Luminary—refocused." 

You lean back, looking like a picture of relaxed authority. "You commanded that stage. A captivating force. Sprite is ecstatic, by the way. Their metrics are—impressive."

The praise, delivered with such detached professionalism, feels like another layer of the trap. She doesn't soften. 

"I did what was required. To protect my team. To salvage the comeback you endangered in the first place." 

"Endangered?" You raise an eyebrow, mildly surprised at the unexpected rebuttal. Knowing damn well this had nothing to do with her predicament that led her here in the first place. "We provided a solution. A necessary recalibration. And it worked, spectacularly. Karina, your name is everywhere. Not just within K-pop circles. Mainstream news. Entertainment blogs. International forums." 

You pause, letting the pervasiveness sink in. "Though," you add, your tone shifting subtly, a hint of analytical detachment entering, "you weren't quite the sole topic of conversation this weekend."

Karina stiffens. "What do you mean?"

"Kwon Eunbi," you state, the name dropping cleanly into the silence, meeting her questioning gaze. "Tier 1: Initiate. Luminary talent. Performed the day before you. She opened her set in a rather elaborate cowboy ensemble. Boots, hat, the whole aesthetic. Sexy, certainly. Predictable." 

There’s a dismissive flicker in your eyes. "And then, for the finale—" 

You let the pause build tension you know she doesn't want to feel but can't avoid. "—she stripped it all away. Down to a lingerie set. White lace. Strategically minimal. Designed less for dancing, more for—impact. Dangerous, some called it. Reckless. Others called it iconic."

The image forms, unbidden, in Karina’s mind. Eunbi, confident, fierce, shedding layers under the blazing lights, reducing her performance to pure, provocative spectacle. A shiver runs through her nerves, part revulsion, part horror-stricken understanding the audacity of it. The sheer, brutal effectiveness.

"The internet," you continue, a low hum cutting through her thoughts, "is rather divided. Outraged. Awed. Obsessed." You tap a single finger lightly on the armrest. "Sound familiar? Your name. Her name. One thing, or should I say—two things. Boobs. The 'darlings' of Waterbomb. It’s the dominant narrative. Pervading spaces that normally wouldn't glance twice at K-Pop. ‘Hot Idol Summer,' they’re dubbing it. You and Eunbi are the twin figureheads. Luminary," you add, the brand pointed and deliberate, "placed you both there."

Karina feels the walls of the office closing in. The success of the comeback, the unexpected thrill of the stage—it all curdles into something sickening. She wasn’t just fulfilling an obligation; she was becoming a cog in Luminary’s machine, her image reshaped, her body commodified alongside Eunbi’s, her name synonymous with a narrative she never chose. The conservative idol facade SM painstakingly built for her lies in tatters, replaced by the black one-piece and the lingering digital gaze of millions.

"Enough," she rasps, the word scraping her throat. The defiance is back, fueled by a rising tide of disgust. At Luminary, at the situation, at the part of herself that had enjoyed the power on that stage. She takes a step forward, her small frame vibrating with tension. "What else? What more do you want from me? I performed. I wore—what you demanded. The scandal is gone. aespa is safe. What is the next obligation? What humiliation comes next?" Her cadence rises, sharp with barely contained dread. "Just tell me. Get it over with."

You watch her outburst, unblinking. The calm in your demeanor is almost unnerving, a deep lake undisturbed by the pebble of her anger. There’s no flicker of annoyance, no tightening of the jaw. Only that same, unnerving attentiveness. When she finishes, the silence stretches, thick and heavy, amplifying the frantic beat of her heart in her own ears.

Then, you smile. Not the faint, acknowledging curve from before. A fuller, more deliberate expression that doesn’t quite reach your cool, assessing eyes. It’s the smile of a man holding the winning hand, revealing it slowly.

"Next obligation?" You echo, the words smooth, almost gentle. "Karina—there isn’t one."

The statement lands with the force of a physical blow. It’s so utterly unexpected, so contrary to the relentless escalation she’d braced for, that it momentarily steals her breath. She stares at you, confusion warring with suspicion in her dark eyes. "What?"

"By all intents and purposes," you continue, spreading your hands slightly, a gesture of finality, "you have fulfilled the terms agreed upon. The scandal was erased. aespa’s comeback proceeded unimpeded and succeeded. You performed your solo stage at Waterbomb Festival in the designated attire. The debt," you tap your steepled fingers together once, "is settled."

Relief should flood her. It doesn’t. It feels like a trapdoor opening beneath her feet. Too easy. Luminary doesn’t deal in clean endings. "Settled?" she whispers, the word feeling alien.

"Settled," you confirm. Your gaze holds hers, steady, inescapable. "There are no further immediate demands tied to that specific contract. Your obligations to SM, of course, continue as per usual. Practice. Promotions. Being Karina of aespa." 

You pause, letting the mundane reality of her idol life settle for a fraction of a second. Then, the other shoe drops. Softly. Inevitably. 

"The only remaining element—is your status."

"My—status?"

"Tier 3. Esteemed," you state, the label hanging in the air like a foreboding mark. "Your designation within the wider Luminary network. The same tier held by Giselle, Winter, and Ningning." 

You see the flicker of recognition, the dawning horror in her eyes as the implications sink in. The pieces Giselle provided click into a terrifying whole. "It’s not an obligation in the sense of a specific task, Karina. It’s an—affiliation. A recognition of your value. And with it," your voice remains level, almost conversational, "comes access. And expectation."

She feels cold. Colder than standing half-naked under the Sprite spray. The office air feels thin. "Access?" she echoes, "Expectation?"

"Access to opportunities that transcend the standard idol trajectory. High-profile, exclusive events. Private showcases. Brand partnerships with—discerning clientele." You watch her carefully, noting the minute tremble in her clasped hands. "And the expectation," you continue, your tone losing none of its calm precision, "is availability. For companionship. For—escort." 

You let the word sit, plain and hideous, in the dull businesslike air. "Discreetly, professionally arranged. Meeting the desires of Luminary’s wealthy associates who appreciate—exquisite talent."

Nauseating revulsion twists her gut. The image is immediate, visceral: strange hands, leering eyes, wealthy men seeing her not as Karina the idol, not as an artist or as Yu Jimin the person, but as a purchased companion. A plaything draped in the label of 'Esteemed Talent.’ 

The degradation is absolute. It makes Waterbomb seem like a minor indignity. 

"No," she breathes, the denial a sharp rasp. "I am not—I will not be—used like that. By them." 

The 'them' is spat out, laden with contempt for the unseen predators lurking behind Luminary’s facade.

Your expression doesn’t change. No offense taken. Only a patient understanding, as if her reaction is entirely predictable, a script you’ve seen enacted before. The others, her members included, can vouch on this.

"‘Used’ is such a crude term," you counter smoothly. "Think of it as—curated interaction. Mutually beneficial networking. Luminary values its assets, Karina. Highly. We don’t simply throw our talent to the wolves." 

You lean forward again, elbows resting on your knees, your gaze intensifying, pinning her in place. "There are measures in place. Strict protocols. Vetting. Non-disclosure agreements thicker than the Seoul phone book. Your safety, your comfort boundaries, are paramount—within reason. Discretion is woven into the fabric of every engagement. Our clients understand the value of silence and following the rules. The consequences of breaching it are—severe."

She shakes her head, a sharp, jerky movement. The reassurances sound like polished lies, the smooth talk of a pimp dressing up exploitation. 

"Severe for them," she retorts, gaining much-needed strength, edged with desperate sarcasm. "What about for me? Locked in a room with some—some elderly investor who thinks his money buys him whatever he wants? Your ‘protocols’ won't stop his hands. Your ‘discretion’ won't erase the feeling." 

You don’t flinch; your calm is a fortress. "Your skepticism is duly noted," you say, a hint of that earlier, unnerving smile returning. "Understandable, given the—abruptness of this new reality. Trust, especially in our line of work, is earned." 

Holding her gaze, the intensity in your eyes shifts, becoming something darker, more focused. Less corporate liaison, more the representative who brokered deals in shadows. "Perhaps words aren't sufficient. Perhaps—a demonstration is in order."

"Demonstration?" The word is spoken and choked with dread.

"Of Luminary’s capabilities," you clarify, losing its polished edge, gaining a subtle, dangerous intimacy. "Of our reach. Our discretion." 

Your eyes sweep the room: the SM executive office, the symbol of the company that owns her contract but is powerless against the entity you represent. "Right here. Right now."

You rise from the guest chair. The movement is fluid, silent. Not towards her, not immediately. Taking a single step towards the window, your back partially faces her, surveying the city as if it were a chessboard laid out below. 

Karina’s breath catches, trapped in her throat. Her eyes are fixed on your back, wide with dawning, paralyzing fear.

Three steps. That’s all it takes to cross from supplicant to sovereign. Your hand, cool and steady, glides across the polished mahogany surface of the desk. Her desk, the SM executive’s domain—as if testing its weight, its authority. 

Comfortably, you settle into the high-backed leather throne, the chair groaning softly beneath you, an obscene sound in the silence. The slatted afternoon light now stripes you, casting sharp lines across your charcoal suit, framing you within the seat of power Karina expected her corporate masters to occupy.

She hasn’t moved. Still rooted near the door, held like a statue carved from tension and disbelief. Watching you annex the symbol of SM’s authority feels like watching a hostile takeover in real-time. Her breath is shallow, audible now in the heavy quiet you’ve cultivated.

"Valuable assets," you begin, filling the room with an effortless authority that seems to vibrate in the mahogany. Your fingers trace the edge of the empty blotter. "That’s what Luminary deals in, Karina. Not disposable commodities. We cultivate. We protect." 

Your gaze lifts, pinning her again. The charm hasn’t vanished; it’s hardened, tempered into something colder, more absolute. "Your concerns—they’re noted. Expected, even. This new facet of your career path requires—some adjustment. A realignment of expectations. Some clients," you concede, the word dropping like a pebble into still water, "can be—unruly. Possessed of an entitlement that outstrips their manners. Wealth does that, occasionally. Breeds a certain—disregard."

A flicker of vindication sparks in Karina’s eyes, quickly doused by renewed dread. Unruly. The word is too soft, too clean for the images flooding her mind: groping hands, leering smiles, the suffocating pressure of a locked door.

"But," you continue, the syllable sharp, cutting off the spiral of her fear, "countermeasures are in play. Robust ones. Think of it as a layered defense. Vetting isn’t merely a checklist; it’s an art form. Discretion isn’t just a promise; it’s a binding covenant enforced with consequences our clients find—viscerally persuasive." You lean back slightly, the leather sighing, your posture relaxed yet radiating absolute control. "We don’t gamble with our investments. Your safety, your peace of mind within the negotiated parameters—it’s non-negotiable for us. Luminary ensures a controlled environment. Always."

The reassurances are slick, polished, logical. Yet they slide off her like oil. 

Control—in a room chosen by a stranger. Safety—when the price is her body. 

"Non-negotiable?" Her voice is brittle, cracking under the strain. "You talk about control, about safety—while telling me I have to—to service men who see me as a toy your organization rents out! How is that safety? How is that control for me?"

You regard her outburst with unnerving calm. Not a flicker of irritation, only that patient, analytical focus. "The parameters are your control, Karina. The boundaries set beforehand. The power to say 'no' within those defined limits. The knowledge that Luminary stands behind that 'no' with teeth. Did the others not explain this? Winter? Ningning?" 

You pause, letting her members’ names hang. "Giselle?"

Karina flinches, almost imperceptibly, at Giselle’s name. The memory of that warning in the practice room hallway. Proper gentleman. Until he’s not. 

Her eyes dart away, a tell as clear as a shout. "No," she lies, the word too quick, too thin. "They didn’t—say anything specific. Just—vague things about sponsors. Networking." She forces her gaze back to yours, defiance warring with a desperate need to shield her members, to deny their complicity. "They wouldn’t—they couldn’t just—accept this. Fold that easily." The denial is fierce, a lifeline. "They’re stronger than that. Smarter."

A slow, knowing smile touches your lips. It’s not cruel, but unsettling in its certainty. 

"Fold?" You chuckle softly, dry and devoid of real mirth. "Is that what you think happened? That Luminary broke them? Forced them into submission?" You shake your head a fraction. "Karina, you’re greatly missing the point. We don’t deal in breaking valuable things. We offer elevation. Access. Protection far beyond what SM’s flimsy contracts and overworked managers can provide." 

You lean forward again, elbows resting on the executive desk, your voice dropping into a confidential register that feels more dangerous than a shout. "Your members—they understood the calculus. The trade-off. Safety, influence, opportunities that vault them lightyears ahead of their peers—in exchange for curated, controlled interactions with individuals who appreciate their—unique value. It’s not weakness. It’s pragmatism. A recognition of the game being played at a higher level."

The image forms, unwelcome and absurd: Winter, sharp and ambitious, calculating the angles. Ningning, pragmatic and driven, seeing the advantage. Giselle—world-weary Giselle, understanding the price and deciding the benefits outweighed the degradation. 

Pragmatism. The word sounds unnaturally wrong. There’s no way they really accepted. Traded pieces of themselves so calmly. Yet, the records show, but she doesn’t know the full extent.

"And Giselle," you continue, your gaze sharpening, locking onto her wavering defiance. "She did tell you something, didn’t she? About me." 

You don’t phrase it as a question. It’s a statement of fact. "She called me a gentleman." The faint smile returns, edged with something darker. "A proper gentleman. Until I’m not."

Karina’s breath hitches. The callback is precise, devastating. It strips away her flimsy denial about Giselle’s warning. She sees it again: Giselle’s wary eyes, the tightness around her mouth as she delivered that cryptic judgment.

"You found it ominous," you observe, reading the confirmation in her face. "A threat disguised as description. But consider the first part, Karina. 'A proper gentleman.' That wasn't a lie. It is the default setting. Courtesy. Respect for boundaries. Discretion. Ensuring comfort within the agreed framework. That’s the baseline for Luminary interactions." 

Your finger taps the desk once. "The 'until he’s not'—" Your gaze intensifies, becoming flinty. "—that’s reserved for when the rules are broken. When our safeguards, our protocols, are challenged or disregarded. That's when the gentleman steps aside. To protect what’s ours."

The distinction is chilling. Luminary’s "gentleman" isn't innate decency; it's a mode of operation, a veneer maintained only as long as their control is absolute and unchallenged. Protection only when their asset is threatened by outsiders, not by Luminary itself.

"You care?" Karina scoffs, the sound raw and disbelieving. "You talk about protection, about value—but it’s just about protecting your investment. Keeping the merchandise undamaged for the next transaction!"

Your expression doesn't waver, but something shifts in your eyes. A flicker of—not offense, but a steely reaffirmation. "You still doubt the depth of that care? The lengths Luminary goes to?" You push back from the desk slightly, the chair rolling a quiet inch. "Perhaps words truly are inadequate. Perhaps," your voice lowers, taking on a new, dangerous intimacy, "a more—tangible demonstration is required. To prove that Luminary’s care extends beyond mere words. That our protection is—active. Immediate."

Karina’s heart slams against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating silence. Your hands move, deliberate, unhurried. Not towards her. Not yet. 

Your right hand goes to the sleek, polished buckle of your designer belt. The snick of the clasp releasing is obscenely loud in the sterile office. A small, metallic sound that echoes like a gunshot. Your left hand follows, fingers finding the zipper of your charcoal trousers. The rasp of the slider moving down, tooth by tooth, is slow, deliberate, a sound that seems to stretch time itself. 

The zipper stops. Silence crashes back, thick as velvet, pressing against Karina’s eardrums. Your hands, steady, deliberate, hook into the waistband of your charcoal trousers and the dark silk boxers beneath. A single, smooth motion. Down they slide, pooling around your ankles like discarded shadows on the polished floor. The afternoon light, slicing through the blinds, catches the revealed length of your erection. 

Hard. A brutal, flesh-and-blood exclamation point in the sterile corporate space.

Karina flinches as if struck. An involuntary choked gasp escapes her. Her hand flies to her mouth, fingers pressing white against her lips. Disgust floods her features: a twisting of her delicate mouth, a widening of her dark eyes into pools of pure revulsion. She looks away, towards the striped light on the floor, then jerks her gaze back, trapped between horror and a terrible, morbid fascination. 

It’s obscene. A violation carved into the very fabric of SM’s supposed authority. This isn't just power; it's a display of it, naked and demanding.

"They all did, you know," you say, a low, conversational hum, utterly incongruous with the scene. Calm. Detached. Almost regretful. "Fell for it. Understood the—equation." 

Your gaze holds hers, unwavering, pinning her even as she tries to look anywhere else. "Giselle. Winter. Ningning." You speak their names softly, like precious artifacts. "Each one. Right where you are now. Confused. Revolted. Certain they’d never bend."

A tiny, wounded sound escapes Karina. The image is poison: her members, her sisters, facing this. Submitting to this. Her stomach churns.

"Giselle," you continue, a faint, almost fond note entering your voice. "Sharp as a tack. Saw the angles immediately. Understood the leverage, the necessity. She knelt first. Took it—thoughtfully." Your eyes drift slightly, as if recalling. "Winter—frisky little thing. Tried some defiance. A spark, quickly banked by the cold reality of consequences. Came around. Learned to appreciate the—efficiency." 

A pause. "Ningning. Pragmatic. Calculated the cost-benefit analysis before the shock even wore off. Embraced the opportunity." Your gaze snaps back to Karina, sharp, analytical. "They bounced on it. Rode it. Used it until their legs shook and their voices broke. Used it until they couldn’t take another inch, another second." 

The clinical description is more violating than any crude term. 

"And then," you drop your words to a near whisper, intimate and chilling, "they came back. Still do."

Karina shakes her head, a frantic denial. "No. They wouldn’t—not like it—"

"Like it?" You tilt your head, a predator considering prey. "Irrelevant. They understood it. The Versace ambassadorship Ningning landed after her third—engagement? The exclusive haute couture access Winter enjoys? The international DJ collaborations Giselle curates? Think those fell from SM’s benevolent sky?" Your smile is thin, devoid of warmth. "Luminary rewards its assets, Karina. Handsomely. Consistently. We invest, and we expect a return. Their successes? Their visibility? That’s the currency. Our way of saying, ‘well done.’"

She’s adrift. The solid ground of her outrage, her disgust, is crumbling beneath the weight of your logic, your terrible, plausible narrative. Her members—thriving. Succeeding. Because of this. Because they— accepted. The cost. The reward. The brutal arithmetic of survival at the pinnacle.

"Meanwhile," you continue, leaning forward slightly, the movement emphasizing the obscene reality between you both, "you have the greatest potential of them all, Karina. The face. The presence. The magnetic it-factor SM polished but Luminary can truly unleash." 

Your eyes lock onto hers, holding her captive not with force, but with the allure painted in your words. "Look at Wonyoung. Look at Jennie. Luminary talents. Tier 4: Ascendant. Where are they? Not just idols. Icons. Ubiquitous. Names that echo beyond music charts, into fashion houses, global campaigns. The absolute apex." You let the images hang: IVE’s born to be natural center, Blackpink’s queen, their faces everywhere, untouchable. "That trajectory? That stratosphere? It’s within your grasp. Luminary holds the key. We make that happen. For those who understand the partnership."

The promise is a devilish temptation piercing through the fog of her disgust. The pinnacle. The fame she craved, not just for aespa, but for Yu Jimin. Recognition that transcended the group. The influence Wonyoung wielded, the global adoration Jennie commanded. It glitters, dazzling, just out of reach—accessible only through this degrading portal you present. The price—her soul, her principles—is horrifying, but the reward—unimaginably vast.

You watch the storm rage behind her eyes: terror, revulsion, ambition, a desperate hunger for validation coming into conflict with the bedrock of her principles. The seconds stretch, suffocating.

Then, you move. Not towards her. Back. Your hands go to your hips, fingers hooking into the silk of your boxers. A slow, deliberate motion, pulling them up, covering yourself. 

The act is almost—dismissive. A withdrawal of the offer. "You can walk away, Karina," you say, regaining its polished, professional cadence, smooth as the mahogany desk. The dangerous intimacy recedes, replaced by cold detachment. "Right now. Out that door. Go back to your dorm. To your members. To SM’s predictable, limited trajectory." 

You tug the boxers fully into place, then reach for your trousers. "Pretend this conversation never happened. That I never sat in this chair. That Luminary’s offer—doesn’t exist." You start pulling up the charcoal wool, the rasp of expensive fabric loud in the stillness. "You don’t have to submit. The choice, ultimately, is yours. I can talk to my superiors. Explain your—reluctance." You fasten the button, then the belt buckle clicks shut with a final, decisive snick. The gentleman re-buttoned; the Ascendant receding. "The path of least resistance is always available. For now."

The rug is pulled out from under her again. The pressure, the terrifying exposure, is abruptly gone. Replaced by—indifference, perhaps dismissal. The sudden shift is disorienting. The relief she expects doesn't come. Instead, a yawning void opens: the glittering pinnacle you dangled—Wonyoung, Jennie, iconhood—now seems to recede behind a closing door. The safety of SM’s predictable trajectory feels like a cage suddenly revealed as flimsy and inadequate. 

Luminary’s power is real. Its rewards are tangible. And walking away—feels like choosing oblivion. Choosing to be less than Giselle, Winter, Ningning. Less than her own potential.

She doesn’t move. Frozen not by fear now, but by a cataclysmic internal shift. The disgust is still there; the violation of your exposure echoes in her bones. But beneath it, coils the ambition you expertly stoked. The hunger for the apex. The desire to be more than just Karina of aespa. To be legendary.

Her eyes, wide and dark, flicker. From your now impeccably clothed form, back to the floor where your trousers had pooled, then up to your face: calm, expectant, offering her the illusion of freedom while knowing the cage door is already open. 

The members—they did it. They prospered. They came back. Wonyoung. Jennie. Icons. The names ring like cathedral bells in her skull.

A moment. A single, suspended heartbeat where the world holds its breath. Her jaw tightens. Her fingers, clenched at her sides, tremble not with fear, but with a terrifying, galvanizing resolve. The passion for glory, the lust for the heights only Luminary can grant, surges, a molten tide overwhelming the last crumbling walls of denial.

Then, she moves.

Not towards the door. Towards you.

A lunge, swift and decisive, fueled by a desperate, hungry energy. Her small hand darts out, not in attack, but in furious, claiming purpose. Her fingers hook into the waistband of your just-fastened boxers and yank, hard, down past your hips, the silk tearing slightly with the violence of the motion. The cool office air hits your exposed skin again.

Before you can react, before the surprise can even fully register on your impassive face, her knees hit the polished floor with a soft, final thud. She doesn’t look up. Her dark hair falls forward, a curtain shielding her expression. But her shoulders are set. Her spine is rigid with a terrible, surrendered determination. One hand braces against your thigh, the heat of her palm searing through the fine wool of your trousers. The other hesitates for only a fraction of a second, hovering near the base of your cock, before her fingers curl, tentative, then firm, around the hard, thick length of it.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t meet your gaze. She simply kneels there, at the foot of SM’s executive desk, before the man who holds the keys to her coronation or her ruin, pulled not by force, but by the devastating, irresistible gravity of fame you promised. 

The sacrifice is made. The point of no return is crossed, not with a whimper, but with the silent, devastating impact of her knees hitting the floor. 

“Knew it would be too good to pass up,” you remark, sighing heavily as her hot breath tickles your loins. “Good girl.”

Karina doesn’t look up. Her gaze is fixed, intense, on the rigid length jutting from your open trousers. There’s no demure blush now, no trembling uncertainty. Only a focused intensity that borders on cold calculation. Her earlier revulsion, the panic, is buried deep beneath a layer of pragmatic resolve. 

This is the demonstration. This is the price of Luminary’s shadow. And she’s decided to pay. To own it. To leverage it.

Her hand, cool and surprisingly steady, wraps around the base of your shaft. Not tentative, but possessive. Assessing. Her thumb strokes the prominent vein running along the underside, a slow, deliberate exploration that sends a jolt straight to your groin. Her other hand braces against your thigh, fingers digging lightly into the fine wool of your suit pants. She leans in, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain, shielding her face.

The first touch of her lips is electric. Not a hesitant kiss, but a firm, wet seal around the swollen crown. Heat floods you, immediate and intense. She holds it, her tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle just beneath the sensitive ridge. A low groan escapes you, rumbling in your chest, echoing faintly in the cavernous room. Her eyes flicker up, meeting yours for a fraction of a second. 

There’s a challenge there. A declaration: I’m setting the terms.

And she does. For several agonizing, exquisite moments. She dictates the rhythm. Slow, torturous sucks that pull you deeper into the wet heat of her mouth, followed by languid retreats where her tongue lavishes attention solely on the head, flicking the slit, tracing the rim. Her pace is maddening. Controlled. Karina works you with the focused precision of a virtuoso, learning the contours, the sensitive spots, cataloging every twitch and throb your cock betrays. Her free hand slides up your inner thigh, fingertips grazing dangerously close to your balls, adding another layer of sensation, another point of control.

She pulls off with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting her lower lip to your glistening crown. Her breath comes faster now, shallow puffs warming your skin. 

"See?" Barely audible, yet it cuts through the heavy silence. "Your demonstration. Luminary’s security." Karinaa gestures vaguely upwards with her chin, towards the unseen executives whose muffled footsteps occasionally sound on the floor above. "Right under their noses. Unseen. Unheard. Proof enough of your—discretion?" 

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her mouth descends again, taking you deeper this time, her tongue pressing flat against the sensitive underside as she hollows her cheeks.

It’s masterful. Insolent. A performance designed to showcase her compliance while subtly asserting her own agency within this degrading transaction. She’s selling this, selling herself, not just submitting. The thought is almost as potent as the feel of her mouth. She’s proving she can play this game, that her value isn’t just in her body, but in her nerve, her perception—pointing out the very security he boasted about, using it as the backdrop for her service.

Her head bobs, slow and deep, her rhythm still hers. She’s building the pressure, the heat coiling low in your belly, tightening with each slick slide of her lips, each velvet stroke of her tongue. You watch the dark crown of her head, the flex of her jaw, the way her throat works as she takes more of you. It feels incredible. Too good. Dangerously close to unraveling the iron control you pride yourself on. Her perceptiveness, her audacity to call out the demonstration mid-demonstration, it’s exhilarating and infuriating. She’s not just sucking your cock; she’s dissecting the power play, participating in it on her own terms.

The footsteps sound again overhead, heavier this time, perhaps moving towards the stairs. A reminder of the precarious stage. Karina hears it too; her rhythm hitches for a microsecond, a tiny tremor running through her. It’s the opening. The crack in her composure.

Enough.

Your hand, which had been resting loosely on the arm of the executive chair, shoots out. Not roughly, but with absolute, unyielding purpose. Your fingers sink deep into the dark silk of her hair, fisting a thick handful close to the scalp. You don’t yank, not yet; you anchor.

Karina freezes. Her mouth is still stretched wide around your shaft, her eyes flying open, wide and startled, meeting yours. The challenge is still there, but now it’s tinged with a flicker of apprehension. You see the understanding dawn: her moment of dictating the pace is over.

"Perceptive," you murmur, graveled with building need. "Very." You apply pressure, not brutal, but inexorable, guiding her head down. "But you’re forgetting the care part of the demonstration, Karina. Luminary’s—thoroughness." 

You hold her gaze, your own eyes dark pools of authoritative command. "Take it. All of it. Down your throat. Show me you understand the depth of our commitment to your—reputation and well-being."

The instruction hangs, absolute in its demand. Her throat works against the intrusion, a reflexive gag stifled as she forces her muscles to relax. There’s a brief, tense resistance, a silent battle fought in the clench of her jaw, the dilation of her pupils. Pragmatism wars with instinctive revulsion. 

Ultimately, the pragmatist wins. The flicker of defiance dims, replaced by a grim acceptance. She yields.

You guide her down, slowly, relentlessly. Feeling the head of your cock push past the resistance of her palate, into the tight, clutching heat of her throat. Her body tenses, a choked gag reflex vibrating through her, muffled against your flesh. Tears spring to the corners of her eyes, glistening tracks tracing paths through her meticulously applied makeup. You hold her there, impaled, letting her feel the full, stretching intrusion, the impossibility of breathing. Letting her feel the absolute control Luminary exerts.

Then, you ease back slightly, letting her gasp in a ragged, wet breath before pushing her down again. Deeper. Establishing a rhythm now, but your rhythm. Firm, demanding strokes that bury your cock to the root in the tight, convulsing channel of her throat before withdrawing almost completely, only to plunge back in. Each thrust is a reassertion of power, a demonstration far more visceral than words. The wet, obscene sounds fill the office: the rhythmic slurp and gag, your own low, guttural groans that escape your clenched teeth.

It’s primal. Degrading. And it feels fucking incredible. The tight, sucking heat, the involuntary spasms of her throat around your shaft, the sight of her beautiful face contorted in this act of abject submission—it coils the tension in your gut tighter and tighter. The earlier slow burn she orchestrated is a distant memory, consumed by the urgent, demanding fire stoked by your control. You fuck her mouth with deliberate, powerful strokes, watching tears mingle with saliva shining on her chin, watching her struggle to accommodate your length, her body trembling with the effort.

The executives’ footsteps sound again, directly overhead now. Pausing. A muffled conversation drifts down. They could be right outside that door. The knowledge is a live wire, crackling through the charged air. Karina whimpers around your cock, a sound of pure panic muffled by your flesh. You tighten your grip in her hair, holding her still, buried deep. 

"Quiet," you rasp, the command vibrating with your own strained control. "They won’t come in. Luminary’s security, remember? They see nothing. They hear nothing they shouldn’t."

The footsteps move away. Karina sags slightly against your thigh, a shuddering breath escaping her nose. The reprieve is brief. You resume the punishing pace, the rhythm of her gagging syncing with the thrust of your hips. You can feel it building, the pressure like a supernova compressed in your spine, radiating heat through your entire body. Your balls draw up tight.

"I’m close," you grit out, the words strained, almost a gasp. "So fucking close." 

You piston into her throat, harder, faster, abandoning finesse for straight, urgent need. Her eyes are screwed shut, tears streaming freely now, her body convulsing with each deep invasion. 

"Gonna paint that pretty face," you groan, the image flashing in your mind. Karina, the idol, marked, claimed.Yours. "Gonna show you exactly what Luminary’s protection buys."

The climax hits like a detonation. A white-hot surge tearing through you, unstoppable, obliterating thought. You slam her head down hard, burying yourself to the hilt in her throat as the first thick, pulsing rope erupts. A guttural groan tears from your throat, echoing off the office walls, a sound of pure, euphoric release utterly at odds with the sterile corporate environment. Jet after jet of hot cum erupts, not down her throat as she might have braced for, but forcefully, powerfully, directly onto her face.

You hold her there, spasming, as you empty yourself. The first blast catches her flush on the cheekbone, thick and pearly white. The next stripes across her forehead, painting a slick trail through her bangs. Another lands on the bridge of her nose. Hot, viscous streaks spatter her closed eyelids, her chin, her parted, gasping lips. It’s messy, profane, a deliberate desecration. You ride the waves of your orgasm, grinding against her face, smearing the cum, marking her thoroughly.

Finally, with your load mostly spent, you release your crushing grip on her hair and pull your softening cock free with a wet, slick sound. Karina collapses forward, bracing her hands on the floor, coughing violently, strings of saliva and cum dripping from her chin. She gasps for air, her shoulders shaking, her face a glistening, ruined canvas of white streaks and smeared makeup, tears cutting paths through the mess.

You watch her, breathing heavily, adjusting your trousers but leaving the belt undone for now. The pornographic sight is profoundly satisfying. Proof of ownership. Proof of submission. Proof of Luminary’s absolute reach.

She doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t immediately scramble to wipe it off. For a long moment, she just kneels there, trembling, catching her breath, the scent of sex and your release thick in the air. Then, slowly, deliberately, she lifts her head. Her eyes, red-rimmed but blazing with a radically-charged fire—of humiliation, fury, exhaustion, and hardened acceptance—meet yours.

Her tongue darts out. Slow. Purposeful. It catches a thick droplet of cum clinging to the corner of her swollen lower lip. She closes her mouth, her throat working as she swallows. The action is obscene, defiant, and utterly submissive all at once. She does it again, licking another streak from her chin, her eyes never leaving yours. Cleaning herself. Accepting the mark. Turning degradation into a transaction completed.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across your face. The demonstration is complete. Utterly. You watch her lap up the remaining traces, the movements mechanical yet devastatingly effective. When her face is mostly clean, though still flushed and tear-streaked, you speak, regaining your smooth, chilling composure.

"Effective," you state, the word a cold benediction. "You learn quickly. That pragmatism will serve you well." You fasten your belt with a sharp click, the sound final. "Further instructions will come. Regarding clients. Discreetly. Through me." 

Straightening your suit jacket, you stand from the chair. The picture of the executive once more, the beast momentarily sated and caged. 

"Consider this—your orientation complete. Welcome to Luminary, Karina of aespa.” You glance towards the door, then back at her kneeling form. "I trust you can see yourself out. Discreetly, of course."

You leave her there, kneeling on the polished floor of the SM office, air thick with the scent of sex and power, the muffled sounds of the company carrying on, blissfully unaware, just beyond the door. 

Luminary’s shadow stretches long, and Karina is now irrevocably within its all-consuming sphere.

—————

Outside your window, Paris glitters like shattered champagne flutes on velvet. Inside an Italian settlement, the suite smells of tuberose and tension, dense as the silk robe Karina shrugs off onto the floor. 

She doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t look at the scattered evidence of her ascension: Louboutins like weapons near the door, a half-packed Louis Vuitton trunk spilling cashmere and lace, the faint, expensive scent of a stylist’s straightener still hanging near the marble bathroom. She’s scrolling her phone, bathed in the cold light of the screen, perched on the edge of a chaise longue worth more than your first car.

You text: Proof of life. The green one.

Almost immediately, your burner hums. A photo loads: Karina, angled slightly away from the mirror in what must be her Milan hotel bathroom. She’s wearing the emerald La Perla set you’d ‘suggested’ for the Bulgari dinner last night. The lace is obscenely delicate against her skin, the cut designed to showcase the impossible architecture of her waist, the swell of her hips. Her face is averted, showing only the sharp line of her jaw, the fall of dark hair. 

No smile. Just existence. Commodified. Yours.

> Better. Show me the back.

Another buzz. Another image. This time, she’s turned, looking over her shoulder at the mirror. The back is mostly strings. The curve of her spine, the dip just above the swell of her ass—it’s clinical, professional. Like documenting a priceless artifact. Which, you suppose, she is. Luminary’s newest Tier 3 Esteemed asset is exceeding expectations.

Things have looked up. Scandalously, obscenely up. That manufactured firestorm over the red jacket: smothered within weeks. Not erased, no—Luminary doesn’t erase, it transforms. It became something of a folklore. A weird blip. The kind of thing only terminally online trolls or bored journalists digging through digital graveyards might scream about. To the wider world, Karina wasn’t the idol who wore the wrong color; she was the idol everywhere else.

The Nike ambassadorship landed like a thunderclap. Not just Korea; global. Billboards in Shibuya, Times Square, the Champs-Élysées suddenly plastered with her face, all determination and sculpted athleticism. Just Do It, indeed. 

She’d done it. Sold out spectacularly. 

Then came the music video guestings: not just any artists, but the famed. The elusive soloists, the legendary groups, the ones whose creative directors were practically gods. Karina, draped in avant-garde silhouettes, a fleeting, haunting presence in their visual narratives, her star power leaching into theirs, amplifying her own. 

Fashion week appearances also followed. Paris, Milan, Seoul. Front row, then walking, then closing. Guest of honor at after-parties where the air crackled with billions and unspoken transactions.

It should feel wrong to her. You watch for it. The flinch. The shadow. The moment her old self, the one who cared about principles, about not being traded like a rare diamond, surfaces. It doesn’t. Not anymore. Or if it does, she drowns it in champagne, buries it under the weight of Givenchy gowns, silences it with the choir of adoration from crowds who see only the glittering surface Luminary has polished to a blinding sheen.

She’s taken to her new role. Not just taken to it; she’s excelling. Luminary’s curation is surgical. Her ‘meetings’ aren’t sordid backroom affairs. They’re power lunches at Le Bernardin, private gallery openings in Mayfair, discreet cocktails on superyachts anchored off Monaco. The clients are—impeccable. CEOs whose names move markets, tech titans building the future, old-money scions with influence woven into the fabric of nations. Chosen not for lechery, but for reach. For the ability to catapult ‘Karina’ from traditional K-pop star to global icon. They want proximity to her light, her current, her desirability. 

Luminary provides. Karina delivers. 

A dazzling smile here, a perfectly timed laugh there, the brush of a hand that lingers just a fraction too long—all choreographed, all transactional, all designed to bind them to her orbit, to invest in her brand. She trades access for elevation. Her soul—a gradual, almost graceful erosion. You see it in the hardening around her eyes, the practiced ease of her detachment. She doesn’t flinch when a Saudi prince’s hand rests possessively low on her back during a photo op. She angles her body into it, gives the camera a smile that could launch wars, and later, in the limo, texts you a selfie of her flawless face, captioned simply: Done.

This is the new Karina. Pragmatic, ambitious, callous. A beautiful, efficient machine lubricated by Luminary’s power and her own burgeoning hunger. 

As for aespa, they’re doing fine. Thriving, even. Luminary ensured their comeback wasn’t just salvaged; it was a stratospheric success. New endorsements, bigger stages, louder cheers. Giselle’s warning—‘Proper gentleman. Until he’s not’—hangs in the air, unacknowledged. They’re still Tier 3, you last checked, with their own clientele to meet, left in Luminary’s binding care. Birds in a gilded cage, singing louder than ever. Karina rarely mentions them except as schedule conflicts. The sacrifice isn’t a wound; it’s a calculated investment paying dividends.

Your relationship—evolves. The initial hatred, her fury at your existence, your control, the violation at the office, has curdled into a thick, resentful reluctance. Necessary interactions. Briefings. Logistics. The demanded photos started as proof of compliance, of location, of attire. Cold. Functional.

Then—something shifted. Maybe it was the sheer volume of the absurd luxury she was plunged into. Perhaps it was the shared secret, the dark knowledge binding you tighter than any contract. Or it was watching the steel enter her spine, the old Karina dissolving like sugar in expensive coffee. 

You started asking for more photos. Not just proof: her. 

Close-ups of her face after a meeting, looking effortlessly composed but with a flicker of something unreadable in her dark eyes. Shots of the impossible outfits Luminary procured, not just the public gowns, but the private lingerie, the silk robes, the things only the handlers and the highest-tier clients ever saw. The green one. The back.

And she sends them. Regularly. Without comment, mostly. Sometimes a single emoji: a diamond. A fire. A smirk. An unspoken acknowledgment of the game. You’re not just one of her handlers now; you’re her confessor. Her witness. The only one who sees the price tag dangling from every triumph. 

The thrill is—complicated. It’s power, yes—the power to demand, and receive. It’s the voyeuristic pleasure of seeing this untouchable star comply to your every whim. But it’s also something darker, more intimate. A fascination. Watching the fire of her ambition consume her old self is perversely gratifying. You see her strength, her ruthless adaptability, and it resonates with the cold efficiency Luminary demands of you.

Tonight, in Paris, the texts feel different. Charged.

> Milan tomorrow. The fitting for the Dolce shoot. Black. Or red?

Her reply is swift, not a photo this time: Black is predictable. Red is—obvious. Surprise me.

A challenge. Or an invitation. The boundaries aren’t just crossed; they’re disintegrating into nothingness.

> I prefer you in white. Like innocence. Before.

A pause. Longer than usual. You imagine her in the silent, opulent suite, the city of light sprawled beneath her, utterly alone. The ghost of the girl who cared flitting across her face before being ruthlessly suppressed.

> Innocence is overrated. And fragile. White stains too easily. 

A beat. Then: The Ascendant’s contact in Rome wants dinner. Thursday. Palazzo something.

Standard. Another carefully curated connection. You start typing the confirmation, the security protocols.

Her next message cuts across: After Rome. Before I go back to Seoul. I’m free Tuesday. Dinner.

It hangs there. Not a Luminary directive. Not a client meeting. Not even framed as a briefing. Just—dinner. You and her.

The handler’s mask slips for a nanosecond. This wasn’t protocol. This was—personal. Dangerous. The line between controller and asset, between watcher and participant, blurring into nothingness. This was the culmination of the sent photos, the shared darkness, the witnessing of her gradual transformation. She wasn’t only folding in; she was reaching across the abyss Luminary had created between you.

You stare at the message. Dinner. A simple word loaded with the weight of everything unsaid, everything done, everything she’s become. The callousness is complete. She’s not just accepting her role; she’s initiating the next phase. With you.

The reply forms, cool, professional, belying the pulse hammering in your throat: Location preferences? Discretion paramount, as always.

Her answer is instantaneous, final: You decide. Somewhere quiet. Where the lights are low.

And just like that, it’s set. Not just another transaction in Luminary’s endless ledger. A date. With Karina. Sold out, shining, soul adrift, and hurtling towards you in the dim light of a quiet restaurant. 

The handler feels a smile, thin and predatory, touch his lips. He chooses the place immediately. Somewhere very discreet. Somewhere very dark. Perfect for watching the final embers of whatever was left of the old Karina flicker and die. Or perhaps, perfect for igniting something else entirely. 

Karina was Luminary’s asset. But by the end of Tuesday night, she might just be all yours.

—————

The Japanese restaurant hums with the mild thrum of money and discretion. Walls of pale, polished wood curve like frozen waves. Shoji screens diffuse the light into something liquid and gold. The air smells of yuzu, grilled binchotan, and the faint, expensive chill of climate control. Your table is a private island in a sea of murmured conversations conducted in half a dozen languages, all promising mergers, acquisitions, and sins yet to be committed. 

Across the lacquered expanse, Karina is a study in contained luminosity. She wears midnight blue, a column dress that clings and then spills. Simple, but devastating. Her hair is a dark waterfall, her makeup minimal, amplifying the sharp perfection of her features. Looking less like an idol and more like a CEO of her own desirability. Untouchable. Yours to touch, if you play this right.

"Champagne?" you offer, nodding to the bottle chilling beside the table.

A trace of a smile touches her lips, barely there. "Why not? Celebrating Nike, I suppose." 

Her voice is low, polished. The crude edges you remember from the SM office, the choked fury, are buried six feet deep. She surveys the room, her gaze sweeping over oligarchs and heiresses with the same detached appraisal she might give a stage setup. "They chose well. This place."

"You approve?" You pour, the bubbles whispering secrets as they rise.

"It’s—efficient. Quiet. No phones out." She accepts the flute, her fingers brushing yours. A calculated accident? You can’t tell anymore. That’s the point. "Unlike Waterbomb." She takes a sip, the liquid catching the light. "That feels like another lifetime."

"It was," you reply, leaning back. The handler observing the asset. The man observing the woman. The lines are deliciously blurred tonight. "Before the myth swallowed the scandal. Before the world decided it wanted Karina, globally." 

You gesture vaguely, encompassing the room, the city below, the billboards doubtless bearing her face somewhere. "How does it feel? Answer honestly. The Nike deal alone—tremendous."

She shrugs, a minute lift of one bare shoulder. The dress strap is a whisper of silk. "It’s work. Good work. Exposure. The design team in Oregon—surprisingly collaborative." 

Her answer is cool, professional. Dismissive. As if global ambassadorship is just another line on a schedule. She spears a sliver of sashimi, the knife-edge of the chopsticks precise. "The music videos? Interesting. Learning different directors’ languages. Fashion Week—" A pause, the barest flicker of something—fatigue, cynicism—"Loud. But necessary."

"Necessary," you echo, swirling your champagne. "But transformative. You move differently now. Command a room differently. Even here." 

You let your gaze linger, appreciative, predatory. "It’s more than just ‘work,’ Karina. It’s elevation. A stratospheric repositioning Luminary engineered for you. Own it."

Karina meets your eyes. Hers are dark pools, reflecting the golden light but giving nothing back. "I am owning it. By being here. By doing the job." 

She deflects. The old Karina, the one who blushed at innuendo, who fretted over group image, is a fossil beneath layers of designer armor. This Karina trades in results.

"Denying the rush is beneath you," you counter, your cadence dropping, intimate despite the space between tables. "Seeing your face dominate Times Square? Closing a show in Milan? Knowing presidents and princes want a seat next to you?" You lean in slightly. "That’s not just exposure. That’s power. Raw, untamed power. Luminary did more than erase a scandal; they handed you the keys to a kingdom. Admit it. Just once. Between us." You gesture around the secluded space. "Who else knows the price tag?"

A beat. Two. The only sound is the distant clink of porcelain, the murmur of the unseen waiter behind the screen. Her facade doesn’t crack, but it shifts. Minutely. A slight tilt of the head. A fractional softening around the eyes that isn't warmth, but acknowledgment. 

"It’s—significant," she concedes, the word carefully chosen. "The scale. The speed. It changes perspective." She takes another sip, her gaze drifting past you, seeing not the restaurant, but the dizzying heights. "You stop asking ‘how’ and start asking ‘what next.’" 

"Precisely." Triumph curls warm in your chest. It’s the closest to an admission you’ll get. The soul isn’t lost; it’s been ruthlessly streamlined for ascent. Principles traded for pinnacles.

"Luminary recognizes potential,” you push, subtly. “True, generational potential. They don’t elevate everyone. Only those who deserve it. Who can handle it." You let the flattery hang, thick as the miso broth the waiter silently places before her. "Think of Wonyoung. That effortless dominance. The way she owns every frame, every front row. Luminary saw that spark, fanned it. Jennie? That global brand, straddling music and fashion with lethal sexiness and cool? Not an accident. Curated opportunity meets innate fire. Like yours." 

You hold her gaze, willing her to see the connection, the lineage. "They saw the queen in you, Karina, buried under SM’s cautious packaging. They just—liberated her."

A faint, almost imperceptible flush rises on her neck. Not embarrassment; recognition. Validation. The handler’s words, wrapped in velvet admiration, finding their mark. She dips her spoon into the broth. "They have—resources. Vision." 

A concession. A tiny crack in the armor, just for you.

"And the clients?" You switch gears, casual, probing the decay directly. "The ‘curated opportunities’? Are they living up to Luminary’s impeccable billing?" You take a bite of perfectly seared wagyu, the fat melting like sin on your tongue. "Enlighten me. For operational feedback, naturally."

Karina considers the question, dissecting it as cleanly as the fish. "Efficient," she states finally. "Mostly. Well-organized schedules. Discreet venues. They understand the—parameters." She spears a piece of tender beef. "Old money. New tech. Pharmaceuticals. Mostly predictable. Mostly—" searching for the word, landing on one that chills with its detachment. "—uninteresting."

"Uninteresting?" You raise an eyebrow, feigning surprise. Delighted by the casual dismissal. "Even the ones who try to stray beyond the pre-dinner PowerPoint presentation? The hands that linger? The invitations whispered after the cognac?"

A flicker of something cold and hard in her eyes. Not fear. Annoyance. The disdain of a professional interrupted. 

"There are always those," she says flatly. "They pay for proximity, for association. Some confuse that with—ownership. Or entitlement." She takes a deliberate sip of water. "I’m there for the exposure. For the connections Luminary facilitates. For the check that clears before I even step into the room." 

She states it plainly. A transaction. Her presence, her light, traded for advancement. The moral compass isn’t just broken; it’s been surgically removed. The clients are tools. Means to an end. Their desires—reduced to irrelevant background noise.

The thrill of her corruption is a physical thing, sharp and sweet. She’s magnificent in her pragmatism. A beautiful machine, purring on the fuel of ambition. 

You lean closer, the low light carving shadows on your face. "So, none of them have managed to—secure a private audience?" 

The question hangs, loaded. A break of silence.

"Giselle’s words feel relevant: ‘Proper gentleman. Until he’s not.’" You quote it softly, watching her reaction. Not fear, but a tightening. A recognition of the game’s inherent danger.

Karina’s gaze locks onto yours. There’s a challenge there, and something else: a weary understanding. "They try. Luminary’s screening is good, but desire—complicates." She doesn’t flinch. "So far, the gentlemen have remained—gentlemen. Mostly. Knowing the consequences helps." 

Her implication is clear: Luminary’s retribution is a powerful deterrent. But her tone also holds a burgeoning concern: How long. How long before one decides the risk is worth it.

The shared knowledge binds you, the handler who knows the system’s teeth, the asset who feels their potential bite. The air crackles. The pretense of operational feedback evaporates. You see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. The way her fingers rest lightly on the stem of her water glass. Not poised to flee, but waiting.

"You deserve better than ‘mostly’ gentlemen," you whisper, dropping to a low thrum that vibrates in the intimate space between you. Your wit is a scalpel, your charm the anesthetic. "You deserve someone who understands the game. Who appreciates the value, the rarity, of what Luminary has forged. Someone who sees the fire, not just the figure on the invoice." You hold her gaze, letting the intensity build. A slow, deliberate pressure. "Someone who knows exactly what it cost you—and finds the result utterly intoxicating."

Her breath hitches, just slightly. The detachment wavers. For a fraction of a second, the old Karina flickers: the one capable of shock, of outrage. But it’s instantly submerged by the new reality. The pragmatist assesses the offer. The star recognizes a different kind of power play. The woman—hesitates.

It’s in that sliver of hesitation that you move.

Not abrupt. Not forceful. Inevitable. Like the tide claiming the shore. 

You reach across the small table. Your fingers don’t grasp, they graze—the back of her hand resting beside her glass. A feather-light touch charged with everything unsaid: the photos, the control, the shared corruption, the dark fascination. Her skin is cool, smooth. She doesn’t pull away.

Your other hand lifts, cups the impossibly perfect line of her jaw. Your thumb brushes the high curve of her cheekbone. She doesn’t flinch. Her dark eyes hold yours, wide, unreadable, reflecting the low golden light and the hunger you no longer bother to hide.

"Karina," you breathe her name, not a handler’s command, but a lover’s invocation. Or a predator’s claim.

Then you kiss her.

It’s not gentle; not tentative. It’s the culmination of weeks of calculated erosion, of shared secrets traded like diamonds in the dark. It’s the taste of champagne and ambition and the faint, expensive trace of her lipstick. It’s power acknowledging power. Corruption tasting its mirror image. Your lips move against hers with a confidence born of knowing she won’t—can’t—truly refuse. Not here. Not now. Not after everything.

For a heartbeat, she is utterly still. A statue kissed, a lover’s resurrecting act. Then, a subtle yielding. Not passion, not yet. Not surrender either. Acceptance. A pragmatic acknowledgment of the trajectory you’ve both been on since the Ascendant’s office. 

Her lips part, infinitesimally. Not an invitation, but a concession to the inevitable force of this new equation. Your tongue traces the seam, a silent demand met with a slow, reluctant softening. The taste of her is expensive, laced with the metallic tang of the game itself. The kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate exploration of conquered territory. Her hand beneath yours doesn’t move, but her fingers tense slightly against the tablecloth. 

You pull back first, leaving a breath of space charged with static. Her lips are slightly swollen, her eyes darker, deeper pools now. A faint flush, real this time, stains her cheeks. She doesn’t look away. The detachment is fractured, replaced by a wary, calculating intensity. Karina touches her lower lip with the tip of her finger, a gesture that feels both unconscious and obscenely deliberate.

The silence stretches, thick with the echo of the kiss and the hum of the unseen restaurant. The waiter will return soon. The world waits.

When your voice returns, it comes as a low rasp, stripped of the handler’s polish, fueled with the charged energy of the boundary obliterated. "My hotel is five minutes away. Top floor. Discreet." 

It’s not an ask; it’s a statement, a declaration. The logical next step. The ultimate proof of her heel turn, her embrace of the decay, the price of glory. "Come with me."

You watch the calculation flicker behind her eyes. Weighing the consequences. The loss of the final shred. 

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blush. Meeting your gaze, her own eyes is a reflection of the cold, hard light of the world she’s chosen. The kingdom Luminary built for her. The unseen forces you represent.

A beat. The clink of distant chopsticks. The sigh of the air conditioning.

Then, a single, soft syllable, delivered with the same pragmatic finality she used to discuss the Nike contract.

"Okay."

—————

Your suite is a monument to sterile opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows drink in the skyline, a billion glittering witness lights. Plush, silent carpet. The air tastes filtered, chilled. You lock the door; the snick is obscenely loud.

Karina doesn’t wait for direction. Doesn’t look at you. She walks towards the bedroom: a deliberate, unhurried prowl. The slit in her dress parts with each step, revealing a flash of toned thigh, the shadowed promise beneath. At the threshold, she pauses, back still turned. Her hands rise. Not hesitant. Efficient. She finds the hidden zipper at the nape of her neck. A whisper of silk against skin, then the midnight blue slithers down her body like ink poured over marble. It pools at her feet.

She steps out of it, leaving—absolutely nothing.

The view from behind is a masterpiece of controlled power. Shoulder blades like sculpted wings above the impossibly narrow taper of her waist. The flare of her hips, lush and defiant. The perfect, taut curve of her ass, dimpling slightly where it meets her thighs. But it’s the sheer completeness of her that arrests you. Not just an idol’s disciplined frame, but a woman’s body rendered in breathtaking, almost intimidating detail. Muscles defined but not harsh, flowing beneath smooth, flawless skin that glows faintly in the city’s reflected light. 

And then she turns.

Her breasts are large, heavy, perfectly shaped, defying gravity through complete structural perfection. High and full, tipped with nipples already pebbled hard in the cool air or anticipation—you can’t tell. They dominate her upper body, a lush counterpoint to the sharp lines of her collarbones, the taut plane of her stomach. 

Her gaze meets yours. No coyness. No shame. Just a cool, assessing look. A commodity presented.

Here I am. This is the cost.

The hunger that lances through you is feral, obliterating the calculated cool. You cross the space in three strides. Your hands don’t go to her breasts, not yet. They clamp onto her narrow waist, fingers digging into the resilient muscle there, pulling her hard against you. The heat of her skin sears through your shirt. Your mouth crashes down onto hers.

This kiss isn’t like in the restaurant. There’s no audience, no pretense. It’s pure, devouring possession. 

She doesn’t yield passively; she meets you thrust for thrust, a low moan vibrating in her throat as her own hands fly to your chest. Fingers scramble for purchase on silk and cotton, finding buttons. She tears at them, impatient, the fabric straining. A button pings off, skittering across the polished floor. Her breath hitches against your mouth as she shoves the shirt open, palms sliding over the hard planes of your chest, nails scraping lightly.

"Fuck," you groan into her mouth, breaking the kiss to trail hot, open-mouthed bites down the elegant column of her throat. Your hands slide up from her waist, thumbs brushing the sensitive undersides of her heavy breasts. She arches into the touch, a gasp escaping her. "Christ, Karina—you’re fucking unreal."

She doesn’t respond. Her hands drop to your belt buckle. The clink of expensive metal is loud. Her fingers are deft, purposeful, working the leather free, then the button of your pants. The zipper rasps down. 

You kick off your shoes, step back just enough to let your trousers and boxers slide down your legs. Your cock springs free, thick and already painfully hard, bobbing against your stomach. 

Her gaze drops, lingers. Not shy. Appraising. Calculating the tool, the weapon.

You reach for Karina again, pulling her flush against your naked body. Skin on skin. The heat is staggering. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts crushed against your chest, the hard points of her nipples branding you. Your cock nestles against the smoothness of her lower belly. You grind against her, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips, feeling the length of your cock slide against her, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum on her flesh. Your mouth finds hers again, swallowing her sharp gasp of breath.

Then you guide her backwards towards the massive bed. She moves with you, her steps small, her body pliant against yours. When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she sinks down, sitting on the crisp, white duvet. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, lock onto yours. Then they drop to your cock, standing rigid before her.

Her hand wraps around the base. Her touch is firm, cool. She pumps slowly, once, twice, her thumb swirling over the swollen, leaking head, smearing the wetness. The sensation is electric, a jolt straight to your spine. You hiss, fingers tangling in her dark hair, not forcing, just anchoring.

"Slowly," you grit out, roughened with her touch. "Make it last."

She looks up at you, a challenge flickering in her eyes. 

"But I want it," she answers seductively. Not the cool idol, not the detached asset. Something primal, awakened. 

Her tongue darts out, pink and deliberate, tracing the flared ridge of your cockhead. A bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shoots through you. Your hips jerk involuntarily.

"Fuck, Karina—" 

Your grip tightens in her hair.

She ignores the warning. Her lips part, enveloping the head. The heat, the wet suction is immediate, devastating. 

Karina takes you deeper, inch by agonizing inch, her tongue working flatly along the sensitive underside. Her eyes stay open, watching your face, gauging your reaction. Hollowing her cheeks, sucking hard, drawing a ragged groan from your throat. One hand still pumps the base of your shaft, the other drifts between her own legs. You can see her fingers move, hidden, hear the soft, slick sound as she touches herself.

The sight, the feel, the sound—it’s too much. Too perfect. Too much like the transaction she’s supposed to be, yet twisted by this ravenous, unexpected hunger. 

The memory of the Ascendant’s office, that first coerced blowjob, slams into you. The violation. The power play. This—this feels different. Dangerous. Like she’s claiming you now. The handler is losing control.

You can’t let it end like that. Not again. Not with her.

With a guttural sound, half-growl, half-plea, you pull your cock from her mouth. A string of saliva connects her swollen lips to the glistening tip for a second before snapping. She looks up, startled, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. Her lips are slick, reddened.

"Not like that," you rasp, breathing hard. "Not—not again." 

You push her shoulders gently but firmly. She yields, falling back onto the bed, her dark hair fanning out on the white duvet. Her body is a feast laid bare in the city light: the heavy, perfect breasts rising and falling with her quickened breath, the flat stomach, the flare of her hips, the dark triangle of curls at the apex of her thighs, glistening with her own wetness.

Kneeling on the bed between her legs, you spread her thighs wide. The scent of her arousal hits you like a physical force, musky and sweet. Leaning down, not to kiss her mouth, but to bury your face in the hot, wet center of her. Your tongue finds her clit, hard and swollen. 

You lap at it, firm, relentless circles.

She cries out, a sharp, broken sound. Her back arches off the bed, her hands fly to your head, fingers tangling in your hair, not pushing you away, but holding on. "Oh God! Fuck!"

You feast. Your tongue delves lower, tasting her entrance, fucking into her tight, wet heat. She’s drenched, her cunt pulsing around your probing tongue. Her thighs clamp around your head, trapping you there. Her hips buck, grinding against your mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. The sounds she makes are animalistic: gasps, whimpers, choked moans. 

Gone is the controlled idol. This is pure, desperate need.

"Please," Karina gasps, torn and ragged. "Please, fuck me—"

You lift your head, your chin glistening in her slick. Her cunt looks ravished, dripping. Her eyes are wild, unfocused. "We’re in no rush," you hush, dragging a finger through her slickness, circling her clit again. She whines, high and desperate.

"Stop—teasing—" she pants, her chest heaving, breasts swaying with the force of her breaths. "Just do it."

Her demand shatters the last of your control. You grab your cock, thick and throbbing, slick with her wetness and your own. Positioning the broad head at her entrance, pressing against the tight, hot ring of muscle. She’s so fucking wet, but still so deliciously tight. You push, slowly, relentlessly, watching her face. Her eyes squeeze shut; her mouth forms a silent ‘O.’ Her body tenses, then yields, accepting the thick invasion inch by glorious inch.

"Fuck," you groan, the sensation almost blinding. Hot, impossibly tight velvet gripping you, sucking you deeper. "Your cunt—Karina—fuck—"

You bottom out, your hips flush against hers. Pausing, deeply buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, letting the sheer, overwhelming fullness register for both of you. She gasps, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around your cock. Her eyes open, blazing into yours. 

"Move," she commands, finding her steel through the sensation. "Fuck me. Hard."

There’s never been an easier command to obey. 

Pull back almost all the way, then slam home. A cry tears from her throat. You set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, driving into her with deep, hard strokes that make the bed frame creak in protest. The sounds are obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, her choked cries, your ragged grunts. You lean down, burying your face in the fragrant curve of her neck, biting, leaving marks on her flawless skin. Your hands find her breasts, large and heavy, filling your palms. You knead them roughly, pinch her hard nipples, drawing sharp gasps from her.

"Yes! Like that! Fucking—harder!" Karina demands, her voice cracking on the razor’s edge. Her legs wrap around your waist, heels digging into your ass, pulling you deeper with every thrust. She meets your movements, grinding up against you, taking everything you give, demanding more. Her velvety cunt is a furnace, gripping you, milking you. 

"Don’t stop! Fuck me! Use my fucking cunt!"

The unfettered filth spilling from her perfect mouth is the most potent aphrodisiac. You’re losing yourself in the heat, the friction, the, bliss of fucking Karina. Luminary asset, global icon, reduced to a writhing, demanding animal beneath you. The control you wielded, the handler’s detachment—it’s all burning up in this inferno.

"I’m close," you gasp against her neck, your thrusts becoming erratic, desperate. "Fuck, Karina—your pussy I’m gonna fucking cum—"

"Cum!" she snarls, nails raking down your back. "Do it! Fill me! Mark me! Cum in my fucking cunt!"

The command, the utter, wanton demand—it pushes you over the edge. 

With a roar ripped from your gut, you slam into her one final time, burying yourself to the root. Your cock pulses violently, jet after hot jet of cum erupting deep inside her clutching cunt. The intensity is blinding, a white-hot detonation that sears through every nerve. You grind against her, emptying yourself, shuddering uncontrollably as her inner muscles spasm and clench around your oversensitive cock, milking out the last drops.

You collapse onto her, spent, gasping, your face buried between her neck and shoulder, the scent of sex and sweat and her expensive perfume overwhelming. Your cock, still half-hard, twitches inside her warm, slick sheath. You feel utterly, deliciously wrecked.

Before you can even register the aftershocks, her hands are on your face. She pulls you up, her mouth finding yours in a fierce, demanding kiss. It’s messy, tasting of salt and sex and her. And while your mind is still fogged with the euphoric haze of your orgasm, her body moves with startling strength.

Mid-kiss, she rolls. Leverage, momentum, the element of surprise—Karina uses it all. In a fluid, powerful motion, she reverses your positions. You land on your back with a soft whumpf, staring up at her, caught off-guard, stunned. She straddles your hips, her weight pinning you, your softening cock still nestled inside her, her inner walls still fluttering around it. Cum, your cum, glistens at her entrance, an obscene claim against her flushed skin.

Her hair is a wild, dark halo around her face. Her lips look swollen, her eyes burning with an intensity that steals your breath. She’s flushed, magnificent, utterly in control. Leaning down, bracing her hands on your chest, her large, perfect breasts swaying tantalizingly close to your face. 

The look she gives you isn't sated; it’s hungry, calculating, possessive.

She takes your hands from where they’d fallen limply to the sheets. Slowly, deliberately, she lifts them. Places them firmly, palm up, onto the heavy, warm swell of her breasts. Her skin is hot silk under your touch. She holds your hands there, pressing them into her flesh, making you cup the full, heavy weight.

"Stay," she commands, low and rough, still breathless, but utterly certain. 

Her hips grind down minutely on your softening cock, a reminder, a promise. Your hands remain on her breasts, anchors in the shifting dark.

Moonlight bleeds through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver stripes across the rumpled sheets, the discarded midnight blue dress pooling on the floor like a fallen shadow, and the expanse of Karina’s bare back as she shifts. She’s propped up on one elbow beside you, tracing idle, meaningless patterns on your chest with a fingertip. Her breathing is deep, even, but the energy humming beneath her skin is anything but settled. 

The silence isn't comfortable; it's charged, a live wire strung taut between the things done and the things yet to be claimed.

You’re softening, spent from the first frantic claiming against the door, then the slower, deeper possession on the bed, where she’d arched and gasped, her nails scoring your back, not in protest, but in a kind of furious, focused greed. But the sight of her, even now—the impossible dip of her waist flaring into the perfect, heavy curve of her hip, the moonlight catching the sweat-slicked line of her spine, the dark fall of hair against the pillow—keeps a low, persistent heat smoldering in your gut.

She feels it. Of course she does. 

Her hand slides lower, fingers trailing down your abdomen, feather-light, teasing. They bypass your softening cock entirely, tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh instead, a knowing smirk playing on her swollen lips. Then, with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, she swings a leg over you, straddling your waist. Her weight settles, warm and possessive. Her eyes, dark pools in the dim light, lock onto yours. Not shy. Assessing. Calculating the angles, even here.

Her hand finds you then, not where she’d teased, but wrapping firmly around your cock. It’s still thick, heavy in her grip, responsive despite the earlier release. She squeezes, a slow, testing pressure, her thumb rubbing a deliberate circle over the sensitive head, slick with the remnants of her and your combined spend. You hiss, your hips jerking involuntarily off the mattress.

"Still eager, babe?" 

Karina’s voice is a low purr, rough around the edges from earlier cries, laced with a new kind of confidence. She begins to move, a slow, torturous rocking of her hips, the hot, wet seam of her pussy grinding against the base of your shaft, coating you anew in her slickness. Her other hand drifts up, fingertips brushing over your collarbone, your throat, coming to rest possessively on your jaw. 

"All that control you wield—over schedules, scandals, me—" She leans down, her breath warm against your ear, her magnificent breasts, full and heavy, brushing against your chest. "Does it ever—slip?"

Her hips rock again, a slow, deliberate undulation designed to coax blood back into aching flesh. She’s building the pressure, the friction, working you back towards hardness beneath her. "Do you ever," she mumbles, her lips grazing your earlobe, "let them take the reins? Giselle? Winter? Ningning?" 

Her name for her members is casual, almost dismissive. Assets. Tools. Like her. "Do they get you like this? Weak? Needing?" 

She punctuates the question with a sharp downward grind of her hips, forcing a choked groan from your throat as your cock twitches, thickening perceptibly under her expert attention.

"Never." The word rasps out, harsh, definitive. Your hands, which had been resting loosely on her thighs, tighten, fingers digging into the firm muscle. Possessive. "Control," you grind out, watching her face, the moonlight catching the sharp planes, the dark challenge in her eyes, "isn't relinquished. It’s permitted. A gift. A calculated risk." 

You buck your hips up, meeting her slow grind, feeling the delicious drag of her wetness, the insistent pressure building. "They get what I allow them. A taste. A fleeting illusion of power." Your gaze travels down her body, a slow, hungry appraisal that makes her breath catch. "Giselle—fuck, that ass. Built for punishment. Taking it deep, hard, screaming into the pillows." 

You shift your grip, one hand sliding up to palm the glorious swell of her own ass, squeezing hard, making her gasp. "Winter—ah, Minjeong—those lips. Perfect for wrapping around a cock, sucking like she’s starving." 

Your other hand drifts up her flank, tracing the defined ridge of her ribs, the taut plane of her stomach. "Ningning—tight little cunt. So fucking responsive. Makes the sweetest noises when she cums." 

Your hand keeps moving, higher, skimming the underside of her breast, feeling its heavy, warm weight. 

"But you—" Your voice drops, thick with a hunger that feels ancient, primal. "Karina. Fuck."

Your hand closes fully over one perfect breast. It’s impossibly full, heavy, the skin like silk over firm muscle. Your thumb finds the hardened peak of her nipple, rolling it roughly, pinching just enough to make her cry out, her hips stuttering their rhythm. 

"I’ve wanted these," you growl, squeezing, kneading the lush flesh. "Dreamed of them. Since before I found Luminary. Since before the fucking red jacket." You release her breast only to cup the other, identical in its perfection, worshipping the weight, the shape. "Wanted them in my hands. In my mouth."

You lean up, straining against her weight, your mouth latching onto the neglected nipple. Then you suck hard, drawing the peak deep, flicking your tongue relentlessly, teeth grazing the sensitive bud. She arches above you, a low moan tearing from her throat, her hands flying to your hair, not to pull away, but to hold you there, pressing you closer.

The taste of her skin floods your senses. You move from one breast to the other, lavishing the same rough, worshipful attention, sucking, biting, licking the valley between them. Karina’s gasping, writhing above you, her earlier control fracturing under the relentless assault. Your cock, trapped beneath her, is fully hard now, achingly so, throbbing against the slick heat of her lower belly, begging for friction, for release.

You pull back from her breast, your lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses up the column of her throat, tasting the frantic pulse there. You reach her jaw, her ear. 

"Want them wrapped around my cock," you breathe, the words feeling dangerously hot against her skin. "Your perfect fucking tits. Want to fuck them. Hard. Until I paint them white. Cover that flawless skin. Mark it." Your hand slides down her back, fingers pressing into the dimples at the base of her spine, urging her up. "Do it. Now."

For a heartbeat, she hesitates, looking down at you, her chest heaving, her lips parted, eyes wide and dark with a mix of shock, arousal, and the dawning realization of just how deep this corruption runs. Then, the pragmatist, the survivor, the star Luminary forged, takes over. A slow, deliberate smile curves her lips. Not sweet. Predatory. Accepting the terms of this new, intimate transaction.

"Alright," she whispers, the title laced with a new, dangerous intimacy. "Show me how much you wanted it."

Karina pushes herself up, kneeling tall above you. The moonlight bathes her, turning her skin alabaster, highlighting the sweat-slicked curves, the magnificent swell of her breasts. She looks like a goddess carved from ice and desire. Her hands come up, cupping the heavy undersides of her breasts, lifting them, pushing them together. The sight is obscenely perfect: the deep cleavage, the hard, pebbled nipples pointing proudly. She leans forward slightly, guiding your cock, thick and straining, between the yielding, silken heat of her mounds.

The first touch is electric. Hot, soft skin enveloping your shaft. She presses down, firm, trapping you in that exquisite, slick valley. A groan rips from your throat, raw and involuntary. She looks down, watching, a flicker of something like fascination in her eyes, watching her own body used this way.

She starts slow. A tentative, experimental lift and drop of her upper body. The friction is minimal, teasing. Her breasts are so soft, so full, the sensation is maddening. 

"Fuck, Karina," you gasp, your hands flying to her hips, not to guide, but to anchor yourself. "Harder. Tighter."

She obeys, pressing her arms closer to her sides, squeezing her tits together with more force, creating a hot, snug tunnel. She begins to move in earnest now, a rhythmic rise and fall, fucking her breasts up and down the length of your cock. 

The slide is exquisite: slick from her sweat, your precum, the sheer friction generating its own heat. The softness is deceptive; the pressure is intense, the tightness unbelievable. The visual is devastating: the dark crown of your cock disappearing between those pale, perfect orbs, reappearing glistening, the moonlight catching every wet slide.

"Fuck—fuck yes," you hiss, bucking your hips upwards to meet her downward thrusts. "Just like that. Fuck, your tits—so goddamn incredible. Made for this. Made for me." 

Your thumbs dig into the soft flesh spilling over the top of her self-made cleavage, rubbing, pinching her nipples roughly through the skin. "Squeeze them. Harder. Milk my cock with these perfect fucking tits."

She moans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through her chest and into your cock. Her eyes flutter shut for a second, then snap open, fixed on where your shaft pistons between her breasts. She increases the pace, the rhythm becoming faster, more desperate. The slick, wet sounds fill the room, a lewd counterpoint to her ragged breathing and your own harsh gasps. Her skin glistens, dewy with effort and the sheen of precum leaking steadily from your tip, smearing across her cleavage, over her collarbones.

"You feel that?" you force out, watching the mesmerizing slide, the way her breasts jiggle with the force, the flushed skin. "Feel how hard you make me? How fucking bad I wanted this? Wanted to ruin you like this? Mark you?" 

You slide one hand up her stomach, over the frantic pulse in her throat, to grip her chin, forcing her gaze to meet yours. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted, panting. 

"None of them," you snarl, the possessive fury rising like a dark tide. "None of those fucking clients got this. Got to see you like this. Got to feel this." You thrust up harder, deeper into the hot, tight embrace of her flesh. "Got to make you their titfuck slut. This is mine. You’re mine."

The vulgarity, the perverse claim, seems to ignite something in her. Not shame. Not resistance. A dark, answering hunger. A twisted pride in being the object of such consuming, degrading desire. 

Karina pushes faster, her movements becoming almost frantic, her breasts bouncing, slapping softly against your stomach with each downward plunge. Her head falls back, a choked cry escaping her as she squeezes her tits together with punishing force, the pressure on your cock becoming almost unbearable.

"Fuck yes!" you cry out, the coil in your gut winding impossibly tight, the pressure building to a screaming peak. The sight of her—debauched, magnificent, yours—using her body like this, the feel of her soft, hot skin milking you, the absolute depravity of it all collides with the overwhelming physical sensation beyond resistance. "Gonna cum again! Gonna fucking paint those perfect tits! Take it! Take every fucking drop!"

She doesn’t slow. Rather, she drives down harder, faster, her eyes locked on yours now, burning with a challenging light. 

"Do it," she gasps, her voice shredded. "Cum. Cover me. Take your fucking asset. Don’t waste a single drop."

The command, the acceptance, the fucking audacity, shatters the last thread of control.

You explode.

It’s not a gentle release; it’s a violent eruption. Thick, hot ropes of cum blast from your cock, jetting forcefully against the soft, yielding flesh of her upper chest. The first shot hits her collarbone, glistening white against her moonlit skin. The next paints a stripe across the swell of her right breast. Another splatters her throat. The force, the sheer volume, surprises even you. Karina gasps, a sharp intake of breath, but she doesn’t pull away. She holds her position, pressing her tits together even tighter, milking you through the pulses, her body trembling as the hot fluid splashes her skin, some even catching the edge of her jaw, a single, glistening drop landing perilously close to her parted lips.

You roar, a sound ripped from deep in your chest, as the spasms wrack you, emptying you utterly onto her, marking her in the most primal, possessive way. The room fills with the sharp tang of sex and needed release. Afterward, you collapse back onto the pillows, completely spent, gasping, your cock twitching weakly in the slick, messy cradle of her breasts.

Karina remains kneeling above you, breathing heavily, her chest and throat and chin painted in streaks of your cum, glistening obscenely in the moonlight. She looks down at herself, then slowly, deliberately, raises a hand. Swipes a finger through a thick stripe on her collarbone, bringing it to her lips. Her dark eyes hold yours as her tongue flicks out, tasting you. A slow, deliberate movement. Not submissive. Evaluative. Accepting. The final seal on her transformation. 

The idol is gone. Only the asset, the possessed, remains.

A shudder runs through you, a mix of satiation and a deeper, darker satisfaction. You reach up, your hand trembling slightly, and wrap your fingers around her wrist, pulling her down towards you. She comes willingly, collapsing onto your chest, her cum-smeared skin pressing against yours, cool and sticky. The smell is overwhelming; you ignore it. Your other hand cups the back of her head, fingers tangling in her dark, sweat-damp hair.

"Mine," you rasp again, the word a vow, a curse, a benediction in the wreckage of the night.

You crush your mouth to hers. The kiss is desperate, tasting of expensive lip balm and the faint, metallic tang of your own release. It’s not tender. It’s a claiming. A confirmation. A passionate affirmation in the ruins of everything she was. 

She kisses you back with equal ferocity, her tongue clashing with yours, her body melting into yours, accepting the ruin, embracing the filth, sealing the pact in the shared darkness of the provided Luminary penthouse. The silence returns, deeper now, filled only with the ragged symphony of your breathing and the indelible proof of her surrender smeared between you.

—————

Hours on, the suite still reeks of you both: Chanel No. 5 and sweat, expensive whiskey and sex’s acrid perfume. Moonlight bleeds through the parted curtains, painting Karina’s bare back as she kneels on the king-sized ruin of the bed, her spine a perfect, deep curve. You’re behind her, hands possessive on the flare of her hips, fingers digging into the incredible, toned muscle there. Her ass is a work of art, high and round, and you guide your cock, slick with her and your earlier release, back to the swollen heat of her cunt. She gasps, a broken little sound, as you push in, hard, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. 

"Fuck," she breathes, her throat utterly wrecked, forehead pressing into the tangled sheets. "So deep—"

Immediately you set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceilings. Her body is a fucking revelation: the impossible narrowness of her waist flaring out to those hips, the sculpted lines of her back muscles tensing and releasing with every thrust. But it’s her tits that are almost obscene in their perfection, heavy and full, swaying pendulums with every jolt of your body into hers. You reach around, palming one, feeling the weight, the softness over taut muscle, thumb finding her nipple, already a hard pebble. 

She cries out, arching back into you, fucking herself back onto your cock. "Yes! God, yes, right there! Fuck me!" 

Her submission isn't passive; it’s hungry, demanding, meeting your force with her own desperate need.

Later, it’s against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering, indifferent sprawl of Milan. Her palms are splayed against the pane, breath fogging the view. You’re pressed flush against her back, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in her dark hair, pulling just enough to tilt her head back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat. You bite, not gently, sucking a bruise into the delicate skin as you drive into her from behind. Her reflection is a blur of pleasure and strain, eyes screwed shut, mouth open on a silent scream. 

"Look," you growl against her ear, leaving your mark on her earlobe. "Look at yourself. See how fucking perfect you take it." 

Her eyes flutter open, meeting yours in the glass: wide, dark, utterly owned. Her cunt clenches viciously around your cock. 

"Mine," you snarl, slamming home, feeling her shudder, her inner walls fluttering wildly. "All fucking night, this perfect cunt is mine."

The mirror in the opulent bathroom witnesses the next act. You have Karina bent over the marble sink, her cheek pressed to the cold surface, your reflection a tableau of absolute possession behind her. Her legs are spread wide, trembling with the effort. You’re kneeling, worshipping, but it’s a slavish kind of devotion. Your tongue is relentless, licking broad stripes through her soaked folds, circling her clit, plunging deep inside her. She’s incoherent, babbling curses and pleas, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone. 

"Please—oh God—please—I need—I need to cum! Let me cum!" 

You suck her clit into your mouth, hard, flicking your tongue rapidly. Her back bows like a drawn bowstring, a shattered scream tearing from her throat as she comes, gushing over your chin, her body convulsing violently under your mouth. You don’t let up, drinking her in, fucking her with your tongue through the aftershocks until she’s sobbing, limp against the counter.

The plush carpet in front of the fireplace becomes an altar. She’s on her back, legs hooked over your shoulders, heels digging into your spine. You’re driving into her with long, deep strokes, your gaze locked on her face. Sweat glistens on her collarbone, between her magnificent breasts that bounce with every thrust. You lean down, capturing a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak. Karina moans, long and low, her hands fisting in your hair. 

"Harder," she gasps. "Fill me up—wanna feel you—deep inside—claim it." 

Her words ignite something primal. You fuck her harder, faster, the angle perfect, hitting that spot deep inside that makes her eyes roll back. 

"Gonna cum?" you grind out, watching your own control fraying. "Gonna milk my cock dry, you perfect fucking slut?" 

She nods frantically, far beyond words, her cunt gripping you like a vise. 

"Do it," you command. "Cum on it. Now." 

Her body obeys, seizing around you, a guttural cry ripped from her chest as her orgasm detonates. It triggers yours: a blinding, white-hot explosion. Burying yourself to the root, pulsing jet after hot jet deep into her clutching channel, filling her, marking her womb as yours. She whimpers, her body still fluttering weakly around your spent cock as you collapse onto her, both of you gasping, slick with sweat and cum.

The night bleeds into a haze of repositioning, rediscovery. Against the ornate bedroom door, her legs wrapped around your waist. On the velvet chaise lounge, Karina riding you, those incredible tits bouncing in your face as you dive in and bite. Bent over the luxurious desk, papers scattering as you take her from behind again, your hand smacking her ass, leaving a red handprint on her pristine skin. 

Each time, it’s a fresh rediscovery of her body: the softness of her inner thighs, the surprising strength in her dancer’s legs, the way her breath hitches when you trace the shell of her ear with your tongue, the addictive tightness of her cunt, the hot, wet grip of her mouth when she takes you deep, gagging but determined, tears streaking her mascara as you fuck her throat. 

You make her your canvas: stomach, tits, face. Sticky streaks of white spread all over as evidence of your obsession. 

You fill her over and over—her pussy, her ass when she begs for it later, whispering intoxicating filth into your ear about being stuffed completely and wanting to be used repeatedly—until she’s dripping, overflowing, a mess made entirely by you. And through it all, the same refrain, growled against her skin, bitten into her shoulder, hissed as you watch her swallow: 

"Perfect. So fucking perfect. Every fucking inch."

Exhaustion, when it finally wins, is absolute. Dawn is a grey smear at the windows when you collapse onto the less-destroyed side of the bed, a tangle of limbs and damp sheets. You drag the heavy duvet over both of you. The silence is thick, broken only by the ragged symphony of your breathing. Her back is pressed to your chest, your arm slung heavily over her waist, fingers idly tracing the dip of her navel. Her skin is feverishly hot.

Her voice, when it comes, is small, reduced to near-tatters. "Did you—ever fuck them like this?" 

She doesn’t name Winter, Giselle, and Ningning. There’s no need to. "The others?"

The question hangs, sharp in the spent air. You feel the slight tension coil in her body beneath your arm. Tighten your hold, pulling her closer, burying your nose in the sweaty mess of her hair. 

"No." 

The word is simple, absolute. 

"Never like this." You press a kiss, surprisingly tender, to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. "Your clients—they fuck you. They take what Luminary sells. They don’t get this." 

Your hand slides down, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip, dipping slightly lower. "No one pushed me like you did tonight. No one made me want to ruin them and worship them in the same fucking breath."

A tremor runs through her. She’s silent for a prolonged moment. You feel the dampness on your arm before you hear the quiet sniff. 

"Luminary—" she starts, "They protect us. From scandals. From—difficult choices. But they can’t protect me from—this feeling. From wondering what piece of me is left."

Karina shifts, turning slightly in your arms. In the dim light, her eyes are huge, luminous pools reflecting the grey dawn. They hold a profound sadness, a stark clarity cutting through the post-coital haze. 

"That deal—it saved aespa. It made me a megastar. It gave me this."

Her gaze sweeps the opulent, debauched room. "But it cost—everything else. My soul? Maybe. The girl who just wanted to sing? To perform for people who genuinely loved the idol? I don’t know if I can ever be that girl ever again." 

A single tear escapes, tracing a path down her temple into the pillow. "I wish—fuck, I wish it happened differently. That I wasn’t so scared. That I fought harder. That I actually said no." 

She swallows hard, meeting your gaze directly, her vulnerability terrifying and beautiful all at once. "But I don’t regret it. Not the success. Not the protection. Not—tonight." Her hand finds yours where it rests on her hip, her fingers lacing through yours with surprising strength. "Not you."

The brutal honesty hits you like a physical blow. You see the echo of your own compromise, the ruthless ambition that curdled into something darker, yet undeniably potent. The handler’s mask, the detached power broker, feels like a flimsy costume in this moment. The man beneath—the one who saw her defiance and wanted to break it, then found himself broken alongside her—surges forward. 

"Listen to me, Karina. I mean—Yu Jimin,” you say, cupping her face, your thumb brushing away the tear track. It’s a low sound, stripped bare, devoid of its usual Luminary chill, the procedural corporate calculus. It’s just the man, rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to personal tenderness. "Luminary’s protection has limits. It shields you from the wolves outside, but it can’t shield you from choices inside its walls. Not really. What happened tonight—it wasn't Luminary. It wasn't an assignment." You hold her gaze, willing her to understand. "You wanted it. You demanded it. And I—I couldn't fucking resist. No one in these shoes could. 

That power you talk about giving up?" You lean in, your forehead resting against hers. "You have it. Right here. Right now. You always have the right to say no. To anyone. To anything. Including me." 

You pull back slightly, your twinkling eyes searching hers. "I fucked you like that because you wanted your brains fucked out. Because you wanted to forget, to feel, to own a piece of something."

A shaky breath escapes her. The guilt, the clarity, it doesn't vanish, but it shifts. Settles. Karina sees the same acknowledgement in your eyes: the cost, the corruption, the undeniable, fucked-up connection established in it. 

She nods, slowly. "I know."

The handler’s mantle settles back onto your shoulders, but it’s different now. Tempered. The promise you make isn’t from Luminary; it's from the man who saw her crack and stepped into the fissure. 

"I’ll protect you," you say, the power returning, but directed, focused. "Not just as one of your handlers. Not just with Luminary’s backing." Your fingers tighten on hers. "As the man who saw you in that damn red jacket and knew you’d burn the world down. As the man who wanted you, even before he owned you." 

It’s a vow laced with darkness, a protector who also happens to be the corrupter. "No one touches you without your say. No one uses you without your consent. Not even the highest bidder Luminary throws your way. And not," you add, your gaze hardening just a fraction, the handler reasserting control, "even me. Unless you ask. Unless you want it."

Karina stares at you, the last vestiges of the guilt eclipsed by a weary kind of understanding, a recognition of the complex, dangerous creature you both are. 

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her swollen lips. She doesn't say thank you; she doesn't need to. She simply shifts closer, her head finding the hollow of your shoulder, her body relaxing completely against yours, utterly spent, utterly claimed, utterly aware of the devil's bargain that brought her straight into your arms.

(And by God, she’ll do it all over again.)

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Before I go on about the fic itself, I'd like to say I liked Dirty Work on the first listen. Probably a hot take, but its one of the few aespa songs I got on the first listen. Surprised at how polarizing it is, considering they've been on a killer title track run since Spicy.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Danielle: "Hey! Emergency favor? My friend needs a place to crash this weekend because of the storm. Her Airbnb got canceled last minute. Can she stay at your place?"

You pause your game and actually consider it for a moment. Your roommate Jake moved out two weeks ago to live with his girlfriend, leaving the spare room empty except for a bed and some boxes you haven't bothered to move yet. The place feels too quiet without his constant stream of terrible jokes and questionable cooking experiments.

"Who is it?" you text back.

"Hanni! I've mentioned her before. She's traveling around before starting her career. Super sweet, you'll love her."

You do vaguely remember Danielle talking about some friend who was taking a gap year to see the world. Something about learning languages and having adventures that make your Netflix-and-takeout lifestyle seem embarrassingly mundane.

"Sure, why not. When's she coming?"

"OMG thank you! She'll be there around 6. You're the best!"

It's 3 PM now. You look around your apartment with the critical eye of someone who's about to have a stranger judging their living space. It's not terrible - you're not one of those guys who lives like a feral college student - but it's definitely bachelor-pad basic. Clean enough, but lacking any personality beyond your gaming setup and the collection of empty beer bottles you keep meaning to recycle.

You spend the next hour doing a speed clean that mostly involves shoving random items into closets and running a vacuum over the visible carpet. The spare room gets fresh sheets that smell like the lavender detergent your mom bought you in a misguided attempt to civilize your domestic life.

By 5:30, you're showered and wearing actual pants instead of the basketball shorts that constitute your weekend uniform. You've even put on a t-shirt without any stains, which feels like formal wear at this point.

The building's ancient intercom crackles to life at exactly 6:03 PM.

"Hi! It's Hanni, Danielle's friend?"

Her voice has this musical quality even through the shitty speaker system. You buzz her up and find yourself actually nervous, which is ridiculous. It's just some girl who needs a place to crash during a storm. No big deal.

You open the door before she can knock, and—

Fuck.

Okay, let's pause here for a moment, because you need to process what you're seeing. Danielle definitely undersold this situation when she said "super sweet." Standing in your hallway is quite possibly the most beautiful girl you've ever seen in person, and that includes the time you accidentally ended up at a fashion week after-party and felt like an anthropologist studying a different species.

Hanni Pham is petite - maybe 5'3" in the sneakers she's wearing - with long dark hair that somehow looks perfect despite the humidity that's been building all day. Her skin has this natural glow that girls probably spend hundreds of dollars trying to achieve with makeup. She's wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversized cardigan that manages to be both cozy and effortlessly stylish.

But it's her smile that really hits you. When she grins (and she's grinning right now as she looks up at you) her whole face transforms. It's one of those smiles that makes you want to say something funny just to see it again.

"You must be the famous roommate.”

"Famous might be overselling it," you reply, stepping aside to let her in. "I prefer 'locally notorious' or 'generally adequate.'"

She laughs - actually laughs, not just that polite chuckle people give when they're being nice - and the sound does something weird to your chest.

"I'm Hanni," she says, extending her hand like you're meeting at a business conference instead of your apartment doorway.

"I know," you say, shaking her hand and immediately noticing how soft her skin is. "Danielle's mentioned you. I'm—"

"The mysterious roommate who apparently has his life together enough to have a spare room on short notice," she interrupts with a teasing smile. "Danielle was very impressed by your domestic capabilities."

"Danielle has clearly never seen me try to fold a fitted sheet," you say, grabbing her suitcase. "But I can order takeout with the best of them, so we won't starve."

She follows you into the apartment, and you watch her take it all in. Your place suddenly feels inadequate under her gaze - not messy, but definitely lacking in sophistication. She doesn't seem to mind, though. If anything, she looks comfortable immediately, like she's one of those people who can adapt to any environment.

"This is really nice," she says, and she sounds genuine. "Much better than the hostel I was staying at last week in Austin. There was this guy who brought his guitar to the common room every night and knew exactly one and a half songs."

"Let me guess—'Wonderwall' and half of 'Sweet Caroline'?"

"Close. 'Wonderwall' and the first verse of 'Hey There Delilah.'" She drops onto your couch like she belongs there. "It was painful. I started taking long walks just to avoid the evening concert."

You find yourself grinning as you set her suitcase by the hallway. There's something immediately easy about talking to her, like you've known each other longer than thirty seconds.

"So Danielle says you're traveling around before starting your career," you say, settling into the armchair across from her. "What's the master plan?"

"Oh, there's no master plan," she says with a laugh. "That's kind of the point. I graduated in May and realized I had spent four years studying business management and had no idea what I actually wanted to do with my life. So instead of jumping straight into the corporate grind, I decided to see the world for a while."

"Business management?" You raise an eyebrow. "Let me guess: parental expectations?"

"Bingo." She tucks her legs under her on the couch. "Asian parents, you know? They had my life planned out from birth. Good grades, good college, good job, good marriage, good grandchildren. The whole timeline."

"And you said 'thanks but no thanks'?"

"More like 'thanks but maybe later.'" She runs her hand through her hair, and you try not to notice how the movement makes her cardigan slip slightly off one shoulder. "I'm not rebelling exactly. I just want to figure out who I am when I'm not following someone else's script."

There's something refreshing about her honesty. Most people your age are either pretending they have everything figured out or wallowing in quarter-life crisis melodrama. Hanni seems genuinely comfortable with not knowing what comes next.

"So where have you been so far?" you ask.

Her face lights up. "God, everywhere. I started in California—spent a month in San Francisco, then drove down the coast. Did the whole Southwest thing, then back up to Colorado for a while. I was in New Orleans for two weeks, which was incredible but also nearly killed my liver."

"And now you're here because...?"

"I'm flying to Germany next month to start learning the language properly. And then this storm happened..." She gestures vaguely toward the window, where the sky is getting increasingly ominous.

"Germany, huh? Then what?"

"Portugal, maybe Brazil after that. I'm trying to learn German and Portuguese simultaneously, which my brain is not appreciating." She laughs. "But I figure if I'm going to wander around aimlessly, I might as well collect some languages while I do it."

You're impressed despite yourself. While you've been grinding through your marketing job and spending weekends recovering from the week, she's been living like a character in one of those indie movies about finding yourself.

"That's actually amazing," you say, and you mean it. "Most people just talk about doing something like that."

"Most people are smarter than me," she replies with that killer smile. "They understand things like 'financial security' and 'long-term planning.'"

"Overrated concepts," you say. "I've got both of those things and I still spend my Saturdays wondering if I'm wasting my life."

She tilts her head, studying you with those dark eyes. "Are you? Wasting your life?"

It's a more serious question than the conversation has been up to this point, and you find yourself actually thinking about it instead of deflecting with humor.

"I don't know," you admit. "I've got a decent job, this place, good friends. On paper it all looks fine. But sometimes I feel like I'm just going through the motions, you know? Like I'm waiting for my real life to start."

"And when do you think that happens?" she asks. "The real life part?"

"No idea. Maybe when I figure out what I actually want instead of just what I'm supposed to want."

She nods like this makes perfect sense. "That's exactly why I left. Everyone kept asking me what my five-year plan was, and I realized I couldn't even figure out what I wanted for lunch most days."

Another crack of thunder rolls overhead, closer this time. The light coming through your windows has taken on that weird greenish quality that means the storm is getting serious.

"Speaking of lunch," you say, standing up, "or dinner at this point—are you hungry? I was planning to order something before the weather gets too crazy for delivery."

"Starving," she admits. "I haven't eaten since this morning. What are the options?"

You grab your phone and start scrolling through delivery apps. "Thai, Chinese, pizza, Mexican, Indian... There's this Vietnamese place that's actually incredible if you're feeling adventurous."

"Vietnamese sounds perfect," she says immediately. "I haven't had good pho in weeks."

"You know pho?" You look up from your phone, surprised.

"I'm half Vietnamese," she says with an amused smile. "Did Danielle not mention that? Pham's my dad's name."

"She definitely left out some key details," you mutter while pulling up the Vietnamese restaurant's menu, feeling slightly embarrassed. Of course Hanni Pham is Vietnamese. You're usually more observant than this, but something about her presence is scrambling your normal social awareness.

"It's okay," she says, clearly picking up on your embarrassment. "I get it all the time.” She leans forward to look at your phone screen. "Oh my god, they have bun bo hue. Order that for me, please. I've been craving it for months."

"You got it." You add it to the cart, then look up at her. "Well, the dual nationality thing must be cool, I guess.”

"Sometimes. I got really good at code-switching depending on which side of the family I was with." She grins.

"And? Which one is actually you?"

She's quiet for a moment, considering. "Both, I think. Neither. Someone new." She looks at you directly. "That's part of why I'm doing this whole travel thing. Trying to figure out who I am when I'm not performing for anyone."

There's something vulnerable in the admission, and you feel a unexpected urge to tell her that whoever she is right now, sitting on your couch talking about identity and soup preferences, she's pretty fucking great.

Instead, you finish placing the food order and set your phone aside. "Well, for what it's worth, the version of you that's here right now seems pretty authentic to me."

She gives you a look that's hard to read - surprised, maybe? Like she wasn't expecting you to say something that direct.

"Thanks," she says softly. "That's... actually really nice to hear."

The moment hangs between you for a few seconds before another rumble of thunder breaks it. This one's close enough to rattle the windows.

"Jesus," you mutter, walking over to look outside. The sky has gone full apocalypse mode - dark green-black clouds rolling in like something out of a disaster movie. "This is going to be intense."

Hanni joins you at the window, standing close enough that you can smell her perfume - light and citrusy that makes you want to lean closer.

"I've never been in a real storm like this," she admits.

"You're in for a treat," you say. "We'll probably lose power at some point."

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. When storms like this hit, the grid just gives up." You glance at her. "You're not scared of storms, are you?"

"No, just... inexperienced." She looks up at you with a grin. "You'll have to teach me how to survive a proper thunderstorm."

There's something in the way she says it that makes your pulse quicken. Maybe it's the proximity, or the intimate lighting as the sky darkens, or just the general chemistry that's been building since she walked in. But suddenly the idea of being trapped in your apartment with Hanni Pham for three days doesn't seem like an inconvenience at all.

"First lesson," you say, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation instead of how close she's standing, "stock up on essentials before the power goes out."

"Which are?"

"Candles, flashlights, batteries, booze." You tick them off on your fingers. "I've got the first three covered, but we might need to make a liquor store run."

"What kind of booze?" she asks, clearly amused by your priorities.

"Wine for sophisticated storm watching, whiskey for if things get really bad, beer for everything else."

"You've really thought this through."

"I've lived here for three years. You learn to prepare for these things."

She's still standing close, looking up at you with those dark eyes, and you're starting to realize that the storm outside might not be the only dangerous weather system you need to worry about this weekend.

Your phone buzzes with a delivery notification, breaking the moment.

"Food's here," you announce, probably more loudly than necessary.

"Perfect timing," she says, but she doesn't immediately move away from the window. "Before we eat, should we make that liquor store run? It's only going to get worse out there."

You check the time on your phone. 7:15 PM. "Good call. There's a place around the corner that stays open late."

"Let me grab my jacket," she says, heading for her suitcase.

Five minutes later you're both hurrying down the sidewalk as the wind picks up. Leaves and debris are starting to swirl around, and the air has that electric feeling that comes right before a big storm hits.

———

The liquor store is busy (apparently you're not the only ones with the idea to stock up before the weather gets nasty). Hanni gravitates toward the wine section while you grab a bottle of decent whiskey and a twelve-pack of beer.

"What do you think?" she asks, holding up a bottle of red wine. "I don't know much about wine, but this one has a pretty label."

You look at the bottle - some mid-range Cabernet that's probably perfectly fine. "Pretty label is a valid selection criterion," you say. "But if we're going to be storm-bound for three days, we might want something a little more special."

You lead her over to a section with slightly better wines and pick up a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo. "This one's got character. Good for drinking while watching the world end outside your window."

"You really know wine?" she asks, looking impressed.

"I know just enough to sound like I do," you admit. "My ex was into wine, so I picked up some basics through osmosis."

"Ah, the ex." Her tone is light, but you catch something in her expression. "Recent?"

"Few months ago. Nothing dramatic, just... ran out of steam." You realize you probably shouldn't be talking about your ex-girlfriend to the beautiful girl you just met, but Hanni seems genuinely curious rather than uncomfortable.

"That's the worst kind of breakup," she says sympathetically. "When there's no big fight or betrayal, just the slow realization that you're not right for each other."

"Exactly." You're surprised by how well she gets it. "How about you? Leaving a trail of broken hearts across America?"

She laughs. "Hardly. I was dating someone senior year, but that ended when I decided to do this whole travel thing. He wasn't exactly supportive of the idea."

"His loss," you say, and immediately regret how that sounds. Too forward, too obvious.

But Hanni just smiles. "Thanks. I think so too."

You grab the wine and head to the checkout, where the cashier is grumbling about having to stay open during the storm.

"Y'all better get home quick," he says as he rings you up. "Weather service just issued a severe thunderstorm warning. Gonna be nasty out there."

As if to emphasize his point, a flash of lightning illuminates the store windows, followed immediately by a boom of thunder that makes everyone jump.

"Shit," you mutter, grabbing the bag. "We need to move."

The walk back to your apartment is like something out of a movie. The wind is whipping hard enough to make walking difficult, and the first fat raindrops are starting to fall. By the time you reach your building, you're both laughing breathlessly at the absurdity of racing a storm.

"That was exhilarating," Hanni says as you climb the stairs to your floor, her cheeks flushed from the wind and exercise.

"That was just the warm-up," you tell her, unlocking your door. "The real show hasn't started yet."

Inside, your apartment feels like a sanctuary. The food delivery is waiting outside your door (the delivery guy apparently decided not to stick around for a tip in this weather) and you bring everything inside just as the rain really starts coming down.

"Perfect timing," Hanni says, already unpacking the Vietnamese food on your coffee table.

You open the bottle of wine while she sets up the food, and within minutes you're both settled on the couch with steaming bowls of soup and glasses of the Tempranillo.

"Oh my god," Hanni moans after her first spoonful of bun bo hue. "This is exactly what I needed. I don't know how they get the broth so perfect."

"Good choice?" you ask, settling back with your own bowl.

"Amazing choice. You clearly know your Vietnamese food."

"I know good food in general," you say. "It's one of my few useful skills."

Outside, the storm is really starting to intensify. Rain is hammering against the windows, and the lightning is getting more frequent. The thunder is almost constant now, a low rumble punctuated by sharp cracks that make the building shake slightly.

"Jesus," Hanni says, looking toward the windows. "Is it supposed to sound like that?"

"That's normal for a storm this size," you tell her, but privately you're a little impressed by how intense it's getting. "We're safe in here. These old buildings are built to last."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she's trying to play it cool. You notice her flinch slightly at a particularly loud thunder clap.

"First real storm nerves?" you ask gently.

"Maybe a little," she admits. "I know it's silly, but I keep expecting something to fall on the building."

"Not silly at all. The first time I experienced a storm like this, I spent the whole night awake thinking the roof was going to cave in."

"Really?"

"Really. I was convinced every lightning flash was going to fry the building's electrical system and trap me in a powerless hellscape."

"And did it?"

"Well, the power did go out around midnight, but the hellscape part was mostly in my imagination."

She laughs, relaxing slightly. "Okay, so what actually happens when the power goes out?"

"Candles, flashlights, and a lot of sitting around in the dark talking. It's actually kind of nice once you get used to it. Very... primitive."

"Primitive how?"

You consider how to explain it. "Like, suddenly all the modern distractions disappear. No TV, no internet, no phone charging. You're just stuck with whoever you're with and whatever conversation you can make."

"That doesn't sound so bad," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Especially with good company."

There's something in the way she says it that makes you look at her more carefully. She's got this slight smile playing around her lips, and she's holding your gaze in a way that feels deliberate.

Okay, you think. So that's definitely flirting.

"The company seems pretty good so far," you agree, matching her tone.

"Just pretty good?" She raises an eyebrow. "I'll have to work on that."

Before you can respond, there's a brilliant flash of lightning followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it feels like it's inside the apartment. Both of you jump, and then you're laughing at your own reactions.

"Okay, that one was close," you admit.

"How close is close?" Hanni asks, moving slightly closer to you on the couch.

"Close enough that we're probably going to lose power soon," you say, acutely aware of the warmth of her leg against yours.

As if summoned by your words, the lights flicker.

"Shit," you mutter.

They flicker again, holding for a moment, then go out completely.

The apartment plunges into darkness so complete you can't see your hand in front of your face. The only illumination comes from the occasional lightning flashes outside.

"Well," Hanni's voice comes from beside you, sounding remarkably calm, "I guess this is where the primitive part starts."

You fumble for your phone's flashlight and use it to navigate to the kitchen, where you keep the emergency candles. Within a few minutes, you've got several candles lit around the living room, casting everything in warm, flickering light.

"Better?" you ask, settling back onto the couch.

"Much," she says. "This is actually kind of romantic."

She says it casually, but there's something underneath the words that makes your pulse quicken.

"Romantic disaster preparedness," you say. "I should put that on my dating profile."

"You'd get a lot of matches during storm season."

"Is that your type? Guys who are prepared for natural disasters?"

She pretends to consider this seriously. "I don't know. I'm still figuring out what my type is."

“You've really never figured out your type?"

"I mean, I thought I had. But then I realized all my previous relationships were based on what I thought I was supposed to want, not what I actually wanted."

"What did you think you were supposed to want?"

"You know, the whole package. Ambitious guy, stable career, five-year plan, ready to settle down and start checking off life milestones." She takes a sip of wine. "Turns out that bores me to tears."

"And what do you actually want?"

She's quiet for a moment, looking at you in the candlelight. "I'm still figuring that out. But I think I want someone who doesn't have it all figured out either. Someone who's okay with not knowing what comes next."

There's something charged in the way she's looking at you, like she's not just talking in hypotheticals anymore.

"That sounds terrifying and appealing in equal measure," you say.

"The best things usually are."

The storm outside is reaching its peak now. The rain is coming down so hard it sounds like static, and the lightning is almost continuous. But inside your apartment, with the candles flickering and the wine starting to warm your blood, it feels incredibly intimate.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says, shifting to face you more directly on the couch.

"Shoot."

"When Danielle asked if I could stay here, did she mention anything about... me? Specifically?"

"Just that you were sweet and I'd like you," you say. "Why?"

"Nothing, just..." She trails off, looking suddenly unsure of herself.

"Just what?"

"I think she might have been matchmaking," she admits with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "She's been trying to set me up with people for months, saying I need to stop being so picky and give nice guys a chance."

"And you think I'm the latest nice guy she's throwing at you?"

"Are you? A nice guy?"

You consider the question. "I try to be. Though I'm starting to think 'nice' might not be what you're looking for."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just a feeling," you say, holding her gaze. "You don't strike me as someone who wants safe and predictable."

"You're right," she says quietly. "I don't."

The admission hangs between you in the candlelit air. You're both aware that the conversation has shifted into more dangerous territory, but neither of you seems inclined to back away from it.

"So what do you want?" you ask.

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her wine glass. When she looks back up, there's something different in her expression: more open, more vulnerable.

"I want to feel something," she says simply. "I've spent so much time doing what I was supposed to do, being who I was supposed to be. I want to know what it feels like to just... follow my instincts for once."

"And what are your instincts telling you right now?"

She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and turns to face you fully. "That this is probably a terrible idea, but I don't care."

"What's a terrible idea?"

Instead of answering, she reaches out and traces her finger along your jawline. Her touch is soft but deliberate.

"This," she whispers.

You catch her hand in yours, holding it against your cheek. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says. "We just met. This is crazy. I'm leaving in three days. There are probably a dozen reasons why we shouldn't."

"Probably more than a dozen."

"So why does it feel like the most natural thing in the world?"

You don't have an answer for that, because she's right. Despite having known her for less than three hours, this feels inevitable somehow. Like you've been moving toward this moment since she first smiled at you in the hallway.

"Maybe," you say carefully, "we don't overthink it. Maybe we just see what happens."

"What happens if what happens is that I fall for you and then have to leave?"

"What happens if we spend the next three days being careful and polite and miss out on something amazing?"

She considers this, her thumb stroking across your cheek where she's still touching you.

"You make a good point," she says.

"I have my moments."

"So what are you suggesting? That we just... go with it?"

"I'm suggesting that we're two adults who are clearly attracted to each other, trapped in an apartment during the storm of the century, with excellent wine and nowhere else to be." You turn your head slightly to press a kiss to her palm. "I'm suggesting that three days can be a lifetime if you let them be."

Her breath catches at the kiss, and you feel something shift in the air between you.

"Three days," she repeats.

"Three days."

"And then I leave."

"And then you leave."

"And we don't make any promises or plans or expectations."

"None."

She's quiet for another moment, studying your face in the candlelight. Then she smiles - that incredible smile that made you forget how to think when you first saw it.

"Okay," she says. "Three days."

And then she's kissing you.

It starts soft, tentative, like she's testing the waters. But when you respond, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss, she melts into you with a little sigh that makes your heart race.

She tastes like wine and something uniquely her, and when she runs her tongue along your lower lip, you actually groan against her mouth.

"Fuck," you breathe when you finally break apart.

"Good fuck or bad fuck?" she asks, her forehead resting against yours.

"Very, very good fuck."

She grins and kisses you again, harder this time, her hands tangling in your hair. You pull her closer until she's practically in your lap, and the feel of her body against yours is intoxicating.

Outside, the storm rages on, but you're barely aware of it anymore. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms, the way she kisses like she's hungry for it, the little sounds she makes when you trace your lips along her neck.

"This is crazy," she murmurs against your ear, but her hands are already working at the buttons of your shirt.

"Completely insane," you agree, sliding your hands under her cardigan to find the soft skin of her waist.

"We should probably slow down," she says, even as she's pushing your shirt off your shoulders.

"Absolutely," you say, lifting her cardigan over her head. "Very sensible."

She's wearing a simple black bra underneath, and the sight of her in the candlelight makes your mouth go dry. She's even more beautiful than you imagined, all soft curves and smooth skin.

"Fuck, Hanni," you breathe, running your hands over her shoulders, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts.

She arches into your touch, her head falling back as you trail kisses down her throat. "This is definitely not slowing down," she gasps.

"Do you want to stop?" you ask, pulling back to look at her.

Her eyes are dark with desire, her lips swollen from kissing. "God, no," she whispers. "I want... I want you to touch me everywhere."

The raw honesty in her voice undoes something in your chest. You cup her face in your hands and kiss her deeply, pouring all your want and wonder into it.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"Bedroom?" you suggest.

"Bedroom," she agrees.

You blow out most of the candles, leaving just one to light your way, and lead her down the hallway to your room. In the doorway, she stops and looks around.

"This is very you," she says with a smile.

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's perfect," she says, and then she's kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed.

You sit on the edge and pull her between your legs, your hands settling on her hips. She runs her fingers through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp in a way that makes you shiver.

"I can't believe this is happening," she says softly.

"Having second thoughts?"

"No. It's just... I don't usually do this. Sleep with someone I just met."

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," she interrupts. "God, I really want to. It's just new for me."

"What's new? The one-night stand thing?"

"The following-my-instincts thing," she says. "I've never just... acted on attraction like this before."

You smooth your hands up her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her bra. "How does it feel so far?"

"Terrifying," she admits. "And incredible."

"Good terrifying or bad terrifying?"

"The best kind of terrifying," she says, and then she's pushing you back on the bed and climbing on top of you.

The feeling of her straddling your hips, her hair falling around her face as she looks down at you, is almost overwhelming. You reach up to trace the line of her jaw, and she turns her head to kiss your palm just like you did to her earlier.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to," you say, sitting up so you're face to face with her. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

She looks at you like she's trying to decide whether to believe you. "Really?"

"Really."

"Even with my hair all messy from the storm?"

"Especially with your hair all messy from the storm."

She smiles and kisses you again, and this time there's something different in it; less desperate, more tender.

"I like you," she whispers against your lips. "I really, really like you."

"I like you too," you whisper back.

"Even though I'm leaving in three days?"

"Especially because you're leaving in three days."

She pulls back to look at you. "What do you mean?"

"It means we don't have time to overthink this or talk ourselves out of it," you say. "It means we can just be here, right now, with each other."

"No expectations."

"No expectations."

"No promises."

"No promises."

"Just this."

"Just this."

She nods, and then she's kissing you again, and her hands are everywhere - your chest, your shoulders, your arms. You let your own hands explore her body, mapping the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin, the way she shivers when you trace patterns on her back.

Time seems to slow down and speed up simultaneously. One moment you're kissing slowly, savoring each other, and the next you're pulling at clothes with urgent need. But there's no rush, no pressure. Just two people discovering each other by candlelight while the storm provides the soundtrack.

When you finally reach for the clasp of her bra, she covers your hands with hers.

"Wait," she says softly.

Your heart sinks. "Are you sure? We can stop—"

"No, it's not that," she says quickly. "I just... can we talk for a minute first?"

"Of course." You settle back against the headboard, pulling her with you so she's curled against your side.

"This is going to sound weird," she says, tracing patterns on your chest with her finger. "But I've never done anything like this before. I've had sex, obviously, but never like this. Never just because I wanted to, without it meaning something specific."

"What did it usually mean?"

"That we were in a relationship. That it was leading somewhere. That it was part of a plan." She looks up at you. "This doesn't mean any of those things, and that's scary but also... liberating?"

"You don't have to justify it," you tell her. "We can do whatever feels right."

"What feels right is being here with you," she says. "But I'm nervous."

"About the sex?"

"About being vulnerable with someone I barely know. About letting myself feel something for someone I'm going to leave."

You stroke her hair, thinking about how to respond. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think vulnerability is brave, not scary. And I think feeling something - even if it's temporary - is better than feeling nothing at all."

She's quiet for a moment. "You're very wise for someone I met three hours ago."

"If I had a nickel for every time I heard that..."

"And what about you? Are you nervous?"

You consider lying, playing it cool, but something about her honesty deserves the same in return.

"Terrified," you admit. "But not for the reasons you'd think."

"What reasons?"

"Because I like you. Like, really like you. And I'm scared that three days with you is going to ruin me for everyone else."

She lifts her head to look at you. "Would that be so bad?"

"Ask me in three days."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what do we do with all this nervousness?"

"We take it slow," you say. "We don't do anything that doesn't feel completely right. And we remember that this is supposed to be fun."

"Fun," she repeats. "I like fun."

"Good, because I'm planning to show you the time of your life."

"Big talk," she says with a grin. "Can you back it up?"

"Give me three days and find out."

She laughs and tilts her head up to kiss you. "Okay," she says against your lips. "Show me."

The next hour unfolds like a dream. You take your time with each other, talking and laughing between kisses, learning what makes each other sigh and gasp. There's something magical about discovering someone new, about the way unfamiliar touches can make your body shiver.

When you finally do remove her bra, it's with reverent slowness, your eyes locked on hers as you reveal more of her beautiful body. She's perfect - small, firm breasts with dusky nipples that harden under your gaze.

"Fuck," you breathe, and she blushes prettily.

"Is that good?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

Instead of answering with words, you lean down and take one nipple into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it until she arches off the bed with a gasp.

"Oh god," she moans, her hands fisting in your hair. "That's... that's really good."

You spend long minutes worshipping her breasts, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction, learning what makes her writhe beneath you. She's incredibly responsive, her back arching and her breath coming in short gasps as you discover all her sensitive spots.

"My turn," she pants, pushing at your shoulders until you're on your back.

She straddles your hips again, and the feeling of her bare breasts pressed against your chest as she kisses you is almost overwhelming. Her hands explore your body with growing confidence, tracing the lines of your muscles, finding the places that make you groan.

When she works her way down your chest with kisses and gentle bites, you think you might lose your mind. She's thorough and deliberate, paying attention to your reactions and filing away everything that makes you respond.

“Hanni," you gasp when she reaches the waistband of your jeans.

"Hmm?" she hums against your skin.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to," she says, looking up at you with dark eyes. "I want to taste you."

She won. "Fuck, yes. Please."

She smiles and makes quick work of your jeans and boxers, leaving you completely naked in the candlelight. For a moment she just looks at you, taking in your body with obvious appreciation.

"You're beautiful too," she says softly, running her hands up your thighs.

"Guys aren't beautiful," you protest.

"You are," she insists. "You're perfect."

And then she's touching you, wrapping her small hand around your length, and coherent thought becomes impossible. She starts slow, just exploring, learning the shape and feel of you. When she finally takes you into her mouth, you literally see stars.

"Jesus Christ," you groan, your hands fisting in the sheets.

She's clearly not super experienced, but what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm. She's paying attention to your reactions, adjusting her rhythm and pressure based on your moans and gasps.

"Hanni, fuck, that's incredible," you manage to say.

She hums around you, the vibration making you jerk beneath her. When she pulls off your cock to catch her breath, her lips are swollen and slick.

"Good?" she asks with a satisfied smile.

"So fucking good," you tell her. "Come here."

You pull her up to kiss her, tasting yourself on her lips. The storm outside seems to have calmed slightly, but you barely notice. All your attention is focused on the girl in your arms.

"I want to touch you," you murmur against her neck.

"Please," she breathes.

You roll her onto her back and trail kisses down her body, taking time to appreciate every inch of soft skin. When you reach the waistband of her jeans, you look up at her for permission.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Please, yes."

You remove her jeans and panties slowly, savoring the reveal of her body. She's perfect everywhere – thick, smooth legs hiding the paradise you are about to discover.

"My turn to explore," you say, settling between her legs.

The first touch of your tongue makes her cry out and arch off the bed. She's already wet, and she tastes incredible; so sweet and musky and uniquely her.

"Oh god, oh fuck," she gasps as you find a rhythm that makes her thighs shake. "That's so good, don't stop, please don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You lose yourself in the task of learning her body, finding the spots that make her writhe and the pressure that makes her moan. She's incredibly responsive, her hips rolling against your mouth as she gets closer to the edge.

"I'm gonna come," she warns. "Fuck, I'm gonna come so hard."

You double your efforts, and within seconds she's falling apart beneath you, her back arching as waves of pleasure crash over her. You work her through it, gentling your touch as she comes down from the high.

When you finally lift your head, she's looking at you with wonder.

"Holy shit," she breathes. "That was... I've never... holy shit."

"Good?" you ask, pressing kisses to her inner thighs.

"Incredible. Amazing. Life-changing." She pulls you up to kiss her deeply. "I need you inside me. Right now."

"Condom," she manages to say.

"Nightstand," you say, reaching over you to fumble in the drawer.

The practicalities of protection handled, you position yourself at her entrance and look into her eyes.

"You sure?" you ask one more time.

"I've never been more sure of anything," she says, pulling you down for a kiss.

You enter her cunt slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation. She's incredibly tight and warm, and it takes all your self-control not to lose it immediately.

"Fuck," you groan against her neck. "You feel amazing."

"So do you," she pants, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Move, please move."

You start slowly, finding a rhythm that has both of you moaning. There's something perfect about the way your bodies fit together, like you were made for this.

"Harder," she gasps after a few minutes. "I need more."

You pick up the pace, driving into her with more force. The sound of skin against skin mingles with your gasps and moans, creating a symphony of pleasure that drowns out the storm outside.

"Yes, fuck, yes," she cries, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you deeper. "Just like that, don't stop."

You can feel her getting close again, her inner walls starting to flutter around you and you're not far behind: the combination of her tight heat and the sounds she's making is pushing you rapidly toward the edge.

"Come with me," you gasp, reaching between your bodies to find her clit.

The added stimulation is all she needs. She cries out your name as she comes, her body clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses that trigger your own release.

You collapse on top of her, both of you breathing hard and trembling from the intensity. For a long moment, you just lie there wrapped in each other's arms, coming back to earth.

"Wow," Hanni finally whispers.

"Yeah," you agree, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "Wow."

You clean up quickly and settle back into bed, pulling her against your side. The candle has burned low, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

"The storm's getting quieter," she observes, her head on your chest.

"Mmm," you hum, too content to care much about the weather.

"So this is what it's like," she says softly.

"What what's like?"

"Following your instincts. Doing something just because it feels right." She tilts her head to look at you. "I can see why people get addicted to it."

"Addicted to what? Good sex?"

"Addicted to feeling alive," she corrects. "I haven't felt this... present... in years."

You stroke her hair, understanding exactly what she means. "It's the storm," you say. "It strips away all the normal distractions and forces you to just be where you are."

"Is that what this is? Storm madness?"

"Maybe. Does it matter?"

She considers this. "No," she says finally. "I don't think it does."

You're both quiet for a while, listening to the rain that's finally starting to ease up outside. The thunder is more distant now, rolling away toward the east.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Anything."

"What are you thinking right now? Really thinking, not just the polite answer."

You're quiet for a moment, trying to articulate the complex mix of emotions churning in your chest.

"I'm thinking that this is the best first day of anything I've ever had," you say finally. "And I'm thinking that two more days isn't nearly enough."

"And?"

"And I'm trying not to think about what happens after that."

She nods against your chest. "I'm thinking the same thing."

"What else are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I could get used to this very quickly," she admits. "Being with someone who makes me feel like this."

"Like what?"

"Like myself. Like the person I am when nobody else is watching."

You tip her chin up so you can see her face in the dim candlelight. "That person is pretty incredible."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

She smiles and settles back against you. "Two more days," she murmurs, half to herself.

"Two more days," you agree.

But as you lie there holding her, listening to her breathing even out as she drifts toward sleep, you're already dreading the moment when you'll have to let her go.

Day Two: Dreaming

You wake up to silence.

Not just quiet; actual silence. No hum of the air conditioning, no soft whir of the refrigerator, no digital clocks glowing in the darkness. Just the gentle sound of rain still pattering against the windows and the warm weight of Hanni curled against your side.

The power is definitely out.

You check your phone: 7:23 AM, and the battery is at sixty percent. Outside, the world looks washed clean. The storm has passed, leaving behind a gray morning and the kind of pristine air that only comes after nature has thrown a proper tantrum.

Hanni stirs beside you, making a soft sound of contentment as she presses closer to your warmth. She's wearing one of your shirts. Now you can't help but think that you'd like to see her wearing every single one of your shirts throughout the nights.

"Morning," you murmur into her hair.

"Mmm," she hums without opening her eyes. "What time is it?"

"About seven-thirty."

"Too early," she decides, nuzzling into your neck. "Let's stay in bed forever."

"I like that plan," you say, tightening your arms around her. "Unfortunately, without power, it's going to get pretty cold in here eventually."

That gets her attention. She lifts her head, blinking in the dim light. "Still no electricity?"

"Nope. Welcome to day two of our primitive survival experience."

She stretches like a cat, and you can't help but admire the way the movement makes her back arch. Even first thing in the morning, with her hair messy and her makeup long gone, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

"How do you feel?" you ask, suddenly worried that she might regret last night in the clear light of morning.

She settles back against you with a smile that erases all your concerns. "Like I slept better than I have in months," she says. "How do you feel?"

"Like I don't want to get out of this bed."

"Then don't," she says simply, trailing her fingers across your chest. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could starve to death."

"Romantic starvation," she muses. "There are worse ways to go."

"Very romantic. We could become one of those tragic love stories people write songs about."

"The Storm Weekend Lovers," she suggests dramatically. "Found months later, still in each other's arms, beautiful corpses who chose love over sustenance."

"That's morbid as hell," you laugh.

"But romantic," she insists, grinning at you.

You kiss her forehead, marveling again at how easy everything feels with her. "Okay, before we commit to romantic death by starvation, let me see what the food situation actually looks like."

"Fine," she sighs dramatically. "Abandon me for practical concerns."

"I'll make it up to you with breakfast."

"What kind of breakfast can you make without power?"

"You'll see. Trust me."

You reluctantly extract yourself from the warm cocoon of blankets and Hanni's arms. The apartment is noticeably cooler without the heating system running, and you can see your breath slightly in the dim light.

"Jesus, it's cold," you mutter, pulling on boxers and a t-shirt.

"Come back," Hanni calls from the bed, having stolen all the blankets the moment you left. "I'm freezing without my personal heater."

"Give me ten minutes to survey our survival options," you tell her. "Then I'll come warm you up properly."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

In the kitchen, you assess your options by phone flashlight. The gas stove still works (one advantage of having an older apartment with gas appliances). You've got eggs, bread, coffee that you can make in your French press, and some fruit that doesn't need refrigeration.

More importantly, you've got camping gear in the closet from a phase last year where you thought you might become an outdoorsy person. That means a battery-powered radio, a camp stove with fuel canisters, and some warm clothing.

You get the coffee started first (because priorities) then set up the camp stove on the balcony to supplement the gas range. The morning air is crisp and clean, washed fresh by the storm.

By the time you return to the bedroom with a tray of coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast, Hanni has managed to make herself even more beautiful despite (or maybe because of) being wrapped in blankets like a burrito.

"You actually made breakfast," she says, sounding impressed.

"I told you to trust me." You set the tray on the nightstand and climb back into bed. "Coffee, eggs, toast, and..." You produce a small container from your back pocket. "Strawberry jam from that fancy place downtown."

"You had fancy jam just lying around?"

"I bought it for my ex and never used it," you admit. "Seemed like a waste to throw it out."

"Well, her loss is my gain," Hanni says, unwrapping herself enough to reach for the coffee. "Oh my god, this smells amazing."

You settle back against the headboard and watch her take her first sip. The way she closes her eyes and makes a little sound of pleasure makes you think about last night, which makes you think about things you definitely shouldn't be thinking about while trying to eat breakfast.

"So what's the plan for today?" she asks, curling up next to you with her coffee.

"Depends how long the power stays out. If it comes back on in a few hours, we can pretty much do whatever we want. If not..." You shrug. "We get creative."

"I vote for not," she says immediately.

"You want the power to stay out?"

"I want an excuse to spend the whole day in bed with you," she says with that direct honesty that keeps catching you off guard.

"We don't need an excuse for that."

"Don't we?" She looks at you over her coffee cup. "I mean, what would we normally do on a Saturday? If we were dating, I mean, or if this was... normal somehow."

It's a good question. What would you normally do? Probably sleep in, maybe grab brunch somewhere, do some shopping or see a movie. The kind of casual weekend activities that couples do when they're still figuring each other out.

"Honestly?" you say. "I'd probably be overthinking everything. Wondering if you were having a good time, whether I should hold your hand, when would be the right time to kiss you."

"And instead?"

"Instead I already know you taste like strawberry jam and make the most incredible sounds when you come."

She nearly chokes on her coffee, laughing. "Jesus, you can't just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to do things that aren't compatible with eating breakfast."

"What kind of things?"

She sets down her coffee and moves closer, her hand sliding under your shirt to rest on your chest. "Things that involve significantly less clothing and significantly more of those sounds you mentioned."

Your pulse kicks up immediately. "We should probably finish eating first."

"Should we?" she asks, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin.

"Food is important for maintaining energy levels."

"I can think of other ways to work up an appetite," she murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your neck.

The combination of her lips on your skin and her hand moving lower makes it very difficult to remember why breakfast was important.

"Hanni," you start, but she silences you by biting gently at your earlobe.

"I've been thinking," she whispers against your ear, "about last night. About how you felt inside me."

All coherent thought evaporates. "Yeah?"

"Mmm. And I've been wondering what it would feel like to wake up with you inside me. To start the day connected like that."

"Fuck," you breathe, your body responding immediately to the image she's painting.

"Is that a yes?" she asks, pulling back to look at you with a smile that's equal parts innocent and wicked.

"That's a definitely yes," you manage to say.

She grins and starts pushing the breakfast tray toward the nightstand. "Then breakfast can wait."

What follows is slow and lazy and perfect. Morning sex with soft gray light filtering through the windows and no urgency except the desire to be close to each other. You take your time exploring her body again, relearning all the places that make her sigh and arch beneath you.

"I love how you touch me," she whispers as you trace patterns on her inner thigh. "Like you're memorizing me."

"I am memorizing you," you admit, pressing kisses along her hipbone. "Every inch."

When you finally slide your cock inside her, it's with a sense of rightness that goes beyond the physical. She wraps her legs around your waist and pulls you close, and for a moment you just stay like that, connected and still.

"This is what I wanted," she says softly, her hands framing your face. "To start the day with you."

You move together slowly, building pleasure with deliberate care rather than desperate need. It's intimate in a way that goes beyond just sex: it's tender and vulnerable and real.

When you both finally fall apart, it's with quiet gasps and whispered names rather than the loud cries of the night before. Afterward, you stay connected, neither of you wanting to break the spell.

"Now I'm hungry," Hanni announces eventually, making you laugh.

"Good thing I made breakfast."

"You're very practical for someone who just rocked my world."

"I'm a man of many talents."

She stretches beneath you, catlike and satisfied. "I'm beginning to notice that."

You finally separate and resettle with the breakfast tray between you. The coffee has gone lukewarm, but neither of you seems to care.

"So," Hanni says around a bite of toast, "what's the rest of our survival plan?"

"Well, assuming the power doesn't come back soon, we'll need to think about staying warm. The temperature's supposed to drop tonight."

"How much colder?"

"Forties, maybe high thirties."

"That's actually cold," she says, looking concerned. "I don't do well in cold weather."

"Don't worry," you tell her. "I've got camping gear, and worst case scenario, we can always share body heat."

"I like that plan."

"I thought you might."

You finish breakfast and decide to venture out to assess the neighborhood situation. Most of the power lines in the area are down, and you can see utility crews already working to restore service. The convenience store on the corner is closed, but the coffee shop two blocks away has a generator and is serving as an unofficial community center for people without power.

"This is kind of amazing," Hanni says as you walk through the neighborhood. "Look how everyone's just... helping each other."

She's right. Neighbors who probably barely speak normally are sharing generators and hot coffee. Someone has set up a grill in the parking lot behind the coffee shop and is cooking food for anyone who needs it.

"Crisis brings out the best in people sometimes," you say.

"Or the worst," she points out. "But this is definitely the best."

You grab some extra ice and batteries from the coffee shop, then head back to your apartment. By the time you return, it's almost noon and the temperature is starting to drop noticeably.

"Okay," you say, setting your supplies on the kitchen counter. "Time to implement phase two of the survival plan."

"Which is?"

"We build a fort."

"A fort?" She looks at you like you've lost your mind.

"A blanket fort," you clarify. "In the living room. We bring all the blankets and pillows from the bedroom, set up the camping gear, and create a warm, cozy space to wait out the power outage."

"That's..." She pauses, considering. "Actually brilliant."

"I told you I was practical."

The next hour is spent transforming your living room into what can only be described as the ultimate adult blanket fort. You use chairs and the coffee table to create a framework, then drape every blanket and sheet you own over it to create an enclosed space. Inside, you spread out camping mattresses and sleeping bags, set up battery-powered lanterns, and arrange pillows for maximum comfort.

"This is ridiculous," Hanni says, crawling inside the finished fort. "And I absolutely love it."

"Welcome to Fort Blackout," you announce, settling beside her. "Population: two."

"It's perfect," she says, snuggling against your side. "Like being kids again, but with the possibility of sex."

"The best kind of fort."

You spend the afternoon in your blanket sanctuary, talking and laughing and learning more about each other. Hanni tells you about growing up between two cultures, never quite fitting perfectly in either one. You tell her about your job and your friends and your general quarter-life confusion about what you're supposed to be doing with your existence.

"Do you ever think about just leaving?" she asks. "Packing up and starting over somewhere else?"

"Sometimes," you admit. "But I've got a good life here. Friends, decent job, this place. It seems stupid to throw that away just because I'm restless."

"But what if staying is what's stupid?" she challenges. "What if the life you have is just... fine... but not actually what you want?"

"What if I don't know what I want?"

"Then you travel until you figure it out," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Not everyone can do what you're doing, Hanni. Some of us have responsibilities."

"What responsibilities?" she asks, genuinely curious rather than judgmental.

"I don't know... rent, career progression, not disappointing my parents..."

"Those aren't responsibilities," she says gently. "Those are expectations. Other people's expectations."

"What's the difference?"

"Responsibility is taking care of yourself and the people you love. Everything else is just pressure you're choosing to accept."

It's such a simple distinction, but it hits you hard. How much of your life is actually driven by what you want versus what you think you should want?

"You make it sound easy," you say.

"It's not easy," she admits. "It's terrifying. But it's also the most alive I've ever felt."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "Is that what last night was about? Feeling alive?"

"Partly," she says. "But not just that."

"What else?"

She turns to face you in the dim light of the fort. "Connection. Real connection with someone who sees me as I actually am, not as who they want me to be."

"And who are you actually?"

"I'm still figuring that out," she says with a smile. "But I know I'm someone who sleeps with beautiful strangers during storms and builds blanket forts and doesn't have a five-year plan."

"That sounds like a pretty good person to be."

"You think so?"

"I think so."

She kisses you then, soft and sweet, and you lose yourselves in each other again. There's something about the enclosed space of the fort that makes everything feel more intimate, more secret. Like you're the only two people in the world.

By evening, the temperature outside has dropped significantly, and you can feel the cold seeping into the apartment despite your fort construction. You've been keeping warm by staying close together, but it's clear you're going to need additional strategies for the night.

"I'm actually cold," Hanni admits, shivering slightly despite being wrapped in a sleeping bag.

"Time for phase three," you announce.

"Which is?"

"Hot food and alcohol."

You venture out of the fort to cook dinner on the camp stove - simple but warm soup and grilled cheese made on the gas stovetop. The bottle of wine from last night is joined by the whiskey you bought yesterday, and soon you're both warming up from the inside.

"This is actually fun," Hanni says, curled up next to you with a mug of soup. "Like camping, but with better amenities."

"Better company too," you say.

"You've done a lot of camping?"

"Some. I went through a phase where I thought I wanted to be outdoorsy. Bought all the gear, planned these elaborate trips, then realized I'm much more of an indoor person."

"What changed your mind?"

"Sleeping on the ground sucks," you say simply. "Also, I like showers and reliable wifi."

She laughs. "So you're a fake outdoorsman."

"Completely fake. I appreciate nature from a comfortable distance."

"Good thing I like fake outdoorsmen."

"Is that your type?"

"Apparently," she says, leaning over to kiss you.

The kiss tastes like wine and soup. When you break apart, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing, just... this is nice. Sitting here with you, talking about nothing important."

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to the kind of conversations I usually have. About careers and goals and where do you see yourself in five years." She makes a face. "I'm so sick of those conversations."

"What would you rather talk about?"

"Anything else. Favorite books, worst fears, what you wanted to be when you were seven years old."

"A dinosaur," you say immediately.

"What?"

"When I was seven, I wanted to be a dinosaur. Specifically a T-Rex."

She stares at you for a moment, then bursts into laughter. "That's the best answer anyone's ever given to that question."

"What about you? What did seven-year-old Hanni want to be?"

"A translator," she says. "I wanted to be one of those people at the United Nations who wear headphones and translate speeches in real time."

"That's… very specific for a seven-year-old."

"I was fascinated by the idea that you could help people understand each other just by knowing multiple languages. It seemed like magic."

"It kind of is magic," you say. "Being able to communicate across cultures like that."

"Maybe that's part of why I'm learning German and Portuguese. Chasing that childhood dream in a roundabout way."

"Are you good at languages?"

"Pretty good. I'm fluent in Vietnamese and English, obviously, and my Spanish is solid. German is harder because the grammar is insane, but I love how precise it is."

"Say something in German," you request.

"Like what?"

"Anything. I just want to hear how it sounds."

She thinks for a moment, then says something in German that sounds both melodic and strong.

"What did that mean?" you ask.

"I said, 'This is the strangest and most wonderful weekend of my life.'"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You're both quiet for a moment, the weight of the sentiment settling between you.

"Can I ask you something?" Hanni says eventually.

"Always."

"What happens after tomorrow?"

It's the question you've both been avoiding, and hearing it out loud makes your chest tighten.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do we exchange numbers and promise to keep in touch? Do we pretend this never happened? Do we..." She trails off, looking uncertain for the first time since you've known her.

"I don't know," you admit. "What do you want to happen?"

"I don't know either. That's the problem."

You set down your mug and turn to face her fully. "Why is it a problem?"

"Because I'm leaving," she says. "Because this was supposed to be simple and uncomplicated, and it's turning into something that feels... not simple."

"What does it feel like?"

She's quiet for a long moment, looking down at her hands. "It feels like the beginning of something important," she says finally. "And I don't know what to do with that."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know this wasn't supposed to be about feelings. But I can't help it. I really like you. Like, really really like you."

"I really like you too," you tell her, reaching out to take her hand. "More than I expected to. More than is probably smart."

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know," you say honestly. "But I know I don't want to spend our last day together worrying about what comes after."

"You're right," she says, squeezing your hand. "Whatever happens, happens. Right now is what matters."

"Right now is pretty great."

"It really is."

She leans over to kiss you, and this time there's something different in it; a tenderness that goes beyond just attraction or desire. It's the kind of kiss that means something, whether you want it to or not.

"So," she says when you break apart, "how exactly are we going to stay warm tonight?"

"I have some ideas," you say with a grin.

"Involving the sleeping bags?"

"Definitely involving the sleeping bags."

"And shared body heat?"

"Lots of shared body heat."

"Show me," she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your pulse quicken.

You spend the next few minutes rearranging the fort, zipping two sleeping bags together to create one larger sleeping space. The battery-powered lanterns cast warm, golden light over everything, creating an atmosphere that's both cozy and intimate.

"Come here," you say, settling into the makeshift bed.

She crawls over to you, and in the confined space of the fort, everything feels closer, more intense. When you kiss her this time, it's with the knowledge that your time together is limited, which makes every touch more precious.

"I want you," she whispers against your lips.

"You have me," you whisper back.

What follows is slow and thorough and incredibly intimate. In the warm cocoon of the fort, with the cold wind whistling outside, you take your time worshipping each other's bodies. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered endearment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni straddles your hips and slowly sinks down onto you, the look in her eyes is so intense it takes your breath away.

"God," she gasps, her head falling back as she adjusts to the feeling of your cock inside her.

"Look at me," you say softly, reaching up to cup her face.

She meets your eyes, and the connection is electric. There's something vulnerable and open in her expression that makes your chest tight with emotion.

"You're so beautiful," you tell her, because it's true and because she needs to hear it.

"So are you," she whispers, beginning to move slowly.

The rhythm you find together is unhurried and perfect. In the golden light of the lanterns, with the storm sounds providing a soundtrack, everything feels dreamlike and magical.

"I don't want this to end," she gasps as you hit a particularly good angle.

"Then don't let it," you say, sitting up to wrap your arms around her.

The new position brings you even closer together, and she makes a sound of pleasure that goes straight to your soul.

"Like this," she breathes, moving against you in a way that makes you see stars. "I want to feel all of you."

You lose track of time after that, lost in the rhythm of her body and the sounds she makes and the way she looks in the flickering light. When she finally falls apart around you, crying out your name, it triggers your own release with an intensity that leaves you shaking.

Afterward, you hold each other close in the warmth of the sleeping bags, listening to the wind outside.

"That was..." Hanni starts, then trails off.

"Yeah," you agree, understanding perfectly.

"Is it weird that I'm already sad about leaving?" she asks quietly.

"Is it weird that I'm already planning ways to convince you to stay?" you counter.

She lifts her head to look at you. "What kind of ways?"

"I don't know. Bribery, maybe. Really good coffee and homemade breakfast every morning."

"That's a compelling offer."

"I could throw in backrubs and excellent fort-building skills."

"You do build an excellent fort," she concedes.

"Plus, think of all the storms we could survive together."

She's quiet for a moment, and you can see her thinking.

"It's tempting," she says finally. "But you know I can't."

"I know," you say, even though part of you was hoping she might say yes. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to ask."

"What if..." She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. "What if distance doesn't have to mean the end?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if we see what happens? Stay in touch, see where you are when I'm done traveling."

Your heart jumps at the possibility. "You'd want that?"

"I don't know what I want long-term," she says honestly. "But I know I don't want to just forget about you when I leave tomorrow."

"I don't want to forget about you either."

"So maybe we don't have to figure it all out right now. Maybe we just... see what happens."

"No pressure, no expectations," you say, echoing the conversation from the night before.

"Just... possibility."

"I like possibility."

"Good," she says, settling back against your chest. "Because I think you might be worth waiting for."

The words hit you harder than they should, given that you've known her for less than two days. But lying there in your blanket fort, holding this incredible girl who's managed to turn your entire world upside down in the span of a weekend, waiting doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.

Outside, the wind is still howling, but inside your makeshift sanctuary, everything feels perfect. You're warm and safe and holding someone who makes you want to be braver than you've ever been.

"Hanni?" you say softly.

"Mmm?"

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making me feel alive."

She tilts her head up to kiss your jaw. "Thank you for making me feel like myself."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other in a pile of blankets and sleeping bags, with the storm providing a lullaby and the promise of one more day together when you wake up.

Day Three: Departure

Sunday morning arrives with cruel sunshine.

You wake to Hanni tracing patterns on your chest, her finger following the lines of your muscles in the golden light streaming through the apartment windows. Sometime during the night, the power came back on - you can hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator and see the digital clock on the microwave blinking 12:00 in the kitchen.

"The storm's over," she says softly, not looking up from her artwork on your skin.

"Yeah," you agree, though you're not sure if she's talking about the weather or the weekend.

"I checked my phone. My flight's still on schedule for tonight."

"What time?"

"Eight-thirty. I should probably leave here around five to get to the airport and check in."

You do the math automatically. It's 9:15 now. Less than eight hours left.

"We should make them count," you say, tightening your arms around her.

"What do you want to do?"

The question hangs in the air between you. What do you do on the last day with someone who's about to walk out of your life? How do you fit a lifetime of experiences into eight hours?

"Everything," you say finally. "I want to do everything with you."

She smiles and looks up at you. "Everything's a pretty big list."

"Then we better get started."

What follows is the kind of day you'll remember for the rest of your life. Not because anything particularly extraordinary happens, but because of the weight of knowing it's all temporary. Every moment feels heightened, more vivid, like you're seeing everything in higher definition.

You start with breakfast in bed; real breakfast this time, with the coffee maker working and eggs that don't require camping equipment. Hanni steals bites of your toast and gets jam on her chin, and when you lean over to kiss it off, she tastes like strawberries.

"So what's the plan?" she asks, curled up next to you with her coffee.

"First, shower," you say. "A real shower, with hot water and actual water pressure."

"Together?" she asks with a grin that makes your pulse quicken.

"Definitely together."

The shower turns into an extended exploration of what it feels like to worship someone's body under hot water. You take turns washing each other with deliberate care, learning the geography of skin and muscle and the places that make each other gasp. When Hanni drops to her knees and takes you in her mouth under the spray of water, you have to brace yourself against the tile wall to keep from collapsing.

"Fuck, Hanni," you groan, your hands tangling in her wet hair.

She hums around you, the vibration making your knees weak. When you finally pull her up to kiss her, she's laughing and breathless and more beautiful than should be legal.

"My turn," you murmur against her lips, and proceed to return the favor until she's crying out your name and trembling against you.

By the time you finally make it out of the shower, it's almost noon and you're both wrinkled from the water and grinning like idiots.

"Best shower of my life," Hanni announces, wrapping herself in one of your towels.

"Just wait until you see what I can do with actual food and a working kitchen," you tell her.

"I've tried every kind of food in America. Do you think you can surprise me?"

"Watch me."

You spend the next hour cooking together - and you use the term "together" loosely, since Hanni's contribution mostly involves sitting on the counter distracting you with her legs and making unhelpful comments about your technique.

"You're supposed to flip it when the edges start to set," she says, watching you make pancakes.

"I know how to make pancakes," you say, though you're more focused on the way her towel is riding up her thighs than on the cooking.

"Are you sure? Because that one looks a little..."

"A little what?"

"Burned," she says with a laugh.

You look down at the pan and realize she's right. "That's your fault for being distracting."

"I'm just sitting here."

"You're sitting there being gorgeous and naked under that towel. It's very distracting."

"Poor baby," she says with mock sympathy. "Can't cook when there's a pretty girl in the kitchen."

"Not just any pretty girl," you correct, moving to stand between her legs. "You specifically. You're like kryptonite for my domestic skills."

"Kryptonite?" She wraps her arms around your neck. "I'm your weakness?"

"My greatest weakness," you confirm, leaning in to kiss her.

The pancakes burn.

You order takeout instead, laughing about your complete failure at domestic goddess status. While you wait for the food to arrive, Hanni gets dressed in clothes from her suitcase; jeans and a soft gray sweater that makes her skin glow.

"I need to do laundry when I get to Germany," she says, examining the contents of her suitcase. "I've been living out of this thing for months."

"What's Germany like?" you ask, settling on the bed to watch her pack and repack her things.

"I don't know yet. I fly into Munich, then I'm taking trains around to different cities. I want to see as much as possible before I settle somewhere to really focus on the language."

"How long will you be there?"

"Three months, maybe four. Depends on how quickly I pick up the German and whether I like it enough to stay longer."

"And then Portugal and Brazil?"

"That's the plan. Though plans have a way of changing when you're traveling." She looks at you. "I'm learning to be okay with not knowing what comes next."

"Must be liberating."

"It is. Terrifying, but liberating." She sits on the edge of the bed. "What about you? Any plans to escape your comfortable life?"

"Maybe," you say, surprising yourself. "I've been thinking about what you said yesterday. About the difference between responsibilities and expectations."

"And?"

"And maybe you're right. Maybe I've been living someone else's idea of what my life should look like."

"What would your idea look like?"

It's a good question, and one you've been afraid to ask yourself. "I don't know," you admit. "But I think I'd like to find out."

"That's the first step," she says softly. "Admitting you don't know."

The food arrives, interrupting the conversation, but her words stick with you. As you eat lunch together on your couch (Thai food this time, eaten straight from the containers) you find yourself looking at your apartment with different eyes. When did you stop thinking of this place as temporary and start thinking of it as permanent? When did you stop asking yourself what you wanted and start just accepting what you had?

"Penny for your thoughts," Hanni says, nudging you with her foot.

"Just thinking about what you said. About not knowing what comes next."

"Having second thoughts about your perfectly adequate life?"

"Maybe." You look at her. "Is that crazy?"

"The only crazy thing would be staying somewhere that doesn't make you happy just because it's safe."

"But what if I leave and it turns out this was as good as it gets? What if I'm throwing away something good for something that might not even exist?"

"What if you stay and spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been?"

She has a point. You've been so focused on not making the wrong choice that you've avoided making any choice at all.

"Besides," she continues, "who says you have to figure it all out at once? You could start small. Take a vacation somewhere you've always wanted to go. Apply for jobs in other cities. See what happens."

"Is that how you started? Small steps?"

"God, no," she laughs. "I went full nuclear option. Quit everything, bought a plane ticket, and hoped for the best."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Well, I'm sitting in an apartment eating Thai food with a guy I met two days ago who makes me feel like I can conquer the world," she says. "So I'd say it's working out pretty well."

"Even though you're leaving tonight?"

"Especially because I'm leaving tonight." She sets down her food and moves closer to you. "Don't you see? If I had stayed home, played it safe, followed the plan, I never would have met you. I never would have had this weekend."

"But you're still leaving."

"But I'm not forgetting." She cups your face in her hands. "Some experiences aren't meant to last forever. That doesn't make them less valuable."

"How do you know the difference? Between something that's meant to be temporary and something that's worth fighting for?"

"You don't," she says simply. "That's what makes it an adventure."

You're quiet for a moment, processing this. "You're very wise for someone who doesn't have a five-year plan."

"I'm very stupid for someone who's falling for a guy she can't keep," she counters.

"Are you? Falling?"

She's quiet for so long you think she's not going to answer.

"Yeah," she says. "I think I am."

"Hanni..."

"I know," she says quickly. "I know it's stupid and impractical and completely against the rules we set up. But I can't help it."

"The rules were stupid anyway," you say, pulling her closer. "Who makes rules about not having feelings?"

"Smart people who don't want to get hurt."

"Are we smart people?"

"Definitely not," she says with a laugh that sounds slightly watery.

"Good. Smart people are boring."

"Are you?" she asks, looking at you with those dark eyes that see too much. "Falling?"

You think about lying, about protecting yourself and her from the complications that come with admitting feelings. But looking at her face, open and vulnerable and beautiful, you can't bring yourself to do it.

"Yeah," you say. "I'm definitely falling."

She closes her eyes like the admission hurts. "This is a disaster."

"The best kind of disaster."

"We're going to end up heartbroken."

"Maybe. Or maybe we'll end up with something amazing."

"How can we have something amazing when I'm leaving?"

"I don't know," you admit. "But I know that what we have right now is amazing, and I don't want to waste it worrying about later."

She opens her eyes and looks at you. "You're right. We have..." She checks her phone. "Four hours. What do you want to do with four hours?"

"Make love to you," you say immediately, then feel yourself blush at the words. "I mean... fuck. I meant have sex. Make love sounds so..."

"Perfect," she interrupts softly. "It sounds perfect."

And it is perfect. You carry her to the bedroom and spend the next two hours learning each other's bodies with a tenderness that goes far beyond anything you've shared before. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss is meaningful, every moment feels like something to be treasured.

When Hanni arches beneath you, gasping your name as you move inside her, the look in her eyes is so full of emotion it takes your breath away.

"I love the way you feel," she whispers, her legs wrapped around your waist. "I love how we fit together."

"I love everything about you," you say, and immediately freeze. It's too much, too soon, too honest.

But instead of pulling away, she smiles. "Say it again."

"I love everything about you," you repeat, this time deliberately. "Your smile, your laugh, the way you think about the world. I love how brave you are and how honest you are and how you make me want to be braver too."

"I love you too," she says simply, and the words hang in the air between you like a gift.

You stop moving, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. "Hanni..."

"I know it's crazy," she says, her hands framing your face. "I know we just met and I'm leaving and this is supposed to be casual. But I love you. I love you and I needed to say it."

"I love you too," you say, and saying it feels like jumping off a cliff. "God, I love you so much it scares me."

What happens next transcends anything you've experienced before. You move together with a desperation that comes from knowing this is precious and temporary. When you both finally fall apart, it's with tears in your eyes and each other's names on your lips.

Afterward, you hold each other in the afternoon sunlight streaming through your bedroom windows, both of you quiet and overwhelmed.

"So," Hanni says eventually, her voice slightly hoarse. "We're in love."

"Apparently."

"That complicates things."

"Just a little."

She's quiet for a moment, then starts laughing. "This is insane. I'm in love with someone I met three days ago."

"Two days," you correct. "It's only been two days."

"That makes it worse, not better."

"Or it makes it magic."

She lifts her head to look at you. "You really think so?"

"I think that falling in love isn't supposed to be logical or convenient or follow a timeline. I think it just happens when it happens."

"And it happened to us."

"It happened to us."

"In the middle of a storm."

"The best things happen during storms."

She smiles and settles back against your chest. "So what now?"

"Now we figure out what to do with it."

"I still have to leave."

"I know."

"And you still have your life here."

"I know."

"And long-distance relationships are hard and usually don't work."

"I know."

"But?"

"But I love you," you say simply. "And you love me. And maybe that's enough to figure out the rest."

"You'd really want to try? Even knowing how complicated it'll be?"

"Hanni, I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. If there's even a chance we could make this work, I want to take it."

"What if I'm traveling for a year? What if I decide to stay in Europe? What if—"

"What if you stop asking what-if questions and we just see what happens?" you interrupt gently.

She's quiet for a long moment. "You'd really wait for me? Even not knowing when or if I'll come back?"

"I'd really wait for you."

"Why?"

"Because some people are worth waiting for," you say, echoing her words from the night before. "And you're definitely one of them."

She turns to kiss you, and there's something different in this kiss - hope, maybe, or possibility.

"Okay," she says against your lips.

"Okay what?"

"Okay, let's try. Let's see what happens."

"Really?"

"Really. I can't promise anything, and I don't know how it'll work, but... I love you. I want to see where this goes."

The relief that floods through you is almost overwhelming. "I love you too. We'll figure it out."

"Together?"

"Together."

You spend the remaining time before she has to leave for the airport doing normal, domestic things that feel anything but normal. You help her pack, though mostly you just sit on the bed and watch her fold clothes while trying to memorize every detail about her. You make coffee and share a mug, taking turns sipping from it like you're sharing something sacred.

At 4:30, you call a car to take her to the airport.

"I should go wait downstairs," she says, shouldering her backpack.

"I'll come with you."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

The ride to the airport is quiet, both of you lost in your own thoughts. Hanni's hand is in yours, and you find yourself memorizing the feel of it: the softness of her skin, the way her fingers fit between yours, the small callus on her index finger from writing.

At the departure terminal, you help her get her bags from the trunk and then stand there facing each other, neither wanting to be the first to say goodbye.

"This is it," she says finally.

"This is it."

"I'll text you when I land in Munich."

"I'll be waiting."

"And we'll video chat when the time zones work out."

"Every day if you want."

"I want." She steps closer, looking up at you with eyes that are bright with unshed tears. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"I'm going to miss you too."

"Thank you," she says softly.

"For what?"

"For the best three days of my life. For making me feel like myself. For being brave enough to fall in love with me."

"Thank you for falling in love with me back."

She rises up on her toes to kiss you, and it's soft and sweet and tinged with the sadness of goodbye.

"I love you," she whispers against your lips.

"I love you too," you whisper back. "Now go have adventures. I'll be here when you're ready."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You watch her walk into the terminal, turning back once to wave before she disappears into the crowd. You stand there for a long time after she's gone, watching planes take off through the windows and thinking about how much your life has changed in three days On the drive home, your apartment feels different, too quiet, too empty, like it's missing something essential. You walk through the rooms, touching things she touched, remembering the way she looked curled up on your couch or standing in your kitchen making coffee.

The blanket fort is still set up in your living room, and you find yourself crawling inside it, surrounded by the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of everything you shared there.

Your phone buzzes with a text: "Boarding now. Thank you for everything. I love you."

You text back: "Fly safe. I love you too. This isn't goodbye, it's see you later."

"See you later," she responds, followed by a heart emoji.

You lie there in the fort, thinking about storms and timing and the way some people can walk into your life and change everything in the space of a weekend. Outside, the city is settling into Sunday evening normalcy, but inside your apartment, everything feels transformed.

Your phone rings. It's Jake, your former roommate.

"Hey man," he says when you answer. "How'd you survive the storm? Power's been out in half the city."

"It was... interesting," you say, which might be the understatement of the year.

"Just interesting? Dude, that was like a once-in-a-decade storm. Didn't you have Danielle's friend staying with you?"

"Yeah. Hanni."

"How was that? Awkward having a stranger crash during the apocalypse?"

You think about how to answer that. How do you explain that a stranger became the most important person in your world in the span of three days? How do you describe falling in love during a storm?

"Actually," you say, "it was perfect."

"Perfect? Really?"

"Really."

"Huh. Well, good for you, man. I was worried you'd be miserable stuck inside with some random girl."

"Definitely not miserable," you say, and you can't help but smile despite the ache in your chest.

After you hang up, you stay in the fort for a while longer, thinking about everything that's happened and everything that might happen next. Tomorrow you'll go back to work, back to your regular life, but something fundamental has shifted. Hanni was right: you can't go back to just going through the motions when you know what it feels like to be truly alive.

Your phone buzzes again. A photo this time - Hanni at her gate, giving a thumbs up with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Gate 47. Thinking of our fort," she's written.

You take a picture of yourself inside the blanket fort and send it back. "Fort misses you already."

"Save it for when I get back?"

"It'll be here waiting."

"Good. I love you."

"I love you too. Safe travels, beautiful."

You stay in the fort until long after her plane has taken off, scrolling through the few photos you managed to take over the weekend and reading through your text conversation. Eventually, you clean up the living room, folding blankets and putting furniture back where it belongs. But you keep one of the sleeping bags on the couch, and you don't put away all the candles.

Some things are worth preserving.

That night, you lie in your bed (which feels too big and too empty now) and think about the future. For the first time in years, you don't know exactly what comes next, and instead of that feeling terrifying, it feels like possibility.

You think about Hanni somewhere over the Atlantic, probably asleep in her cramped airplane seat, flying toward her next adventure. You think about the conversations you'll have and the texts you'll exchange and the video calls that will have to substitute for being together.

It won't be easy. Long-distance relationships require work and patience and faith that what you have is worth the difficulty. But lying there in the dark, remembering the way she looked at you when she said she loved you, you know it will be worth it.

Your phone buzzes one last time. "Somewhere over the ocean. Can't sleep. Thinking about our storm."

"Think we'll have another one?" you text back, not sure if she's still awake to receive it.

The response comes immediately: "I'm counting on it."

You fall asleep smiling, and you dream of storms and girls who taste like adventure and the way some weekends can change your entire life.

Three days. It took three days for a stranger to become the most important person in your world. Three days to fall in love and decide to fight for something that should be impossible.

“Does the first thing you say about a stranger always have to be how they’re in bed?”

“Don’t be mistaken—there’s no bed involved. Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.” She drains her glass, swirling the straw around. “I've never been wrong. Go ask her if you want.”

“Gee, and here I was thinking I’d start with a ‘What’s your name?’ sorta thing.” The blue lights swing around, catching you right in the eye. You flinch and raise a hand, squinting.

“Bow and call her queen while you’re at it,” Heejin mutters and drifts off towards the drinks table.

You exhale, shoulders sagging. Your fault for pointing the girl out to her in the first place. Should’ve known better.

Lonely Friday nights drive a man to dark places. In your case: a shitty party, where the only person you know is Heejin? That’s about as dark as it gets.

You came here begrudgingly, Heejin doesn’t hear “no” when it comes from you. And you were right: you were enjoying yourself exactly as much as expected. Not at all.

Until you saw her.

The girl.

You weren’t trying to notice her; she just kept appearing in your line of sight. A constant. And you’ll admit she’s nice to look at. Like now, the way she leans against the wall—glass dangling loose between her fingers, head tipped just right for the light to trace the curve of her throat.

She lifts the glass. The light follows—up, towards her face. A jolt: her hand trembles, nearly drops the glass. A faint pop, a subtle crack in the air, but she recovers quickly. As the light shifts away, so does the tension. And you're back in your head again:

Those lips, parted beneath your teeth. Her body, pinned and pliant against the wall—

Fingers tap your shoulder. You turn, Heejin’s back, a fresh refill of her poison in hand.

Ugh.

Sober Heejin is unbearable. A few glasses in? There’s a reason no one but you ever sticks around.

“No one ever told you staring's rude?” She sips through a new straw that takes several unnecessary detours on the path to her mouth.

“I wasn’t.”

“Uh-huh. And I’ve been drinking tea all night,” she bites. “You sure you don’t wanna drink tonight?”

“No. I’m driving us home.”

“One glass won’t kill you. Here—I’ll ask AI if you like.” She pulls up her phone, holding the power button. “Hey Google, how many glasses before you can’t—”

You snatch it, switch it off, and shove it back in her purse. “I’m good.” You couldn’t care less about Heejin, or the drive home, or anything else she’s whining about. Your focus is elsewhere entirely.

A look back confirms it: the girl’s still there.

“I think she’s alone,” Heejin says, peeking over your shoulder. “Name’s Chaewon, by the way. A little birdie told me. Come on, let’s go talk. Maybe she’ll—”

You cut in: “Forget her. Wanna go dance?”

Why you asked is anyone's guess.

Maybe because you don’t want to keep imagining things you shouldn’t; shut down the reel playing in your head.

Maybe because even if you did talk up the girl—Chaewon, it wouldn’t be with Ms. No-filter, 5 drinks deep, as your wing-woman. Or anywhere in the same zip code, for that matter.

And when’s she ever taken no for an answer.

Heejin snorts, raising a brow. “I didn’t come here to dance with you.”

“I know, but I don’t see anyone hitting you up. And me, well.” You shrug. Needs no explanation.

“Didn’t think you’d like flailing around in that sweaty mess. But sure, if it floats your boat.”

She heads toward the crowd, and you trail behind. Chaewon’s disappeared now, nowhere in sight.

First order of business: ditch Heejin in the crowd.

The crowd swells as you step in. Bodies press in, the bass rattling in your chest. You lose track of where Heejin is in the mess. She was ahead of you, but now you think she’s somewhere behind?

On track so far.

You scan the edges, trying to spot Chaewon—but no luck. Just a swirl of backs and raised arms. Party lights slice through the dark, leaving flickers of blue and white on damp skin.

“Your moves suck,” a voice cuts in behind you. Heejin, unmistakable even over the thrum of the speakers.

Can’t catch a break tonight.

“Never claimed to be a dancer.” You turn to spot her shaking her hips, lifting her glass high like a trophy.

“Everyone’s got one in them. Just need a little encouragement.”

Before you can react, she tilts your chin up—her fingers cool against your sweat-warm skin—and brings her glass to your lips. She pours what’s left of it into your mouth in one swift motion.

The drink hits fast and sharp. Sharp, burning, with a hint of sweet. You burst out coughing, nearly stumbling as someone brushes past you. But you’ve swallowed most of it. Your throat’s on fire.

She grins, patting your back. “The shit I threw in it should give you a spine now.” Among other things, you'd fucking think.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

Just when you think the night’s tapped out on ways to fuck with you, a bead of sweat rolls down your neck when you see who’s right behind her.

Chaewon. Dancing. Alone.

Just hope to god she disappears before Heejin spots her. You throw your arms in the air and move, swaying to the pounding music.

“There we go,” Heejin says, amused. “Alcohol finally gave you a dancing bone.”

You keep your eyes locked on her. Try your best to hold her attention. Keep her gaze from drifting where it’s not needed. She holds your stare without looking away—surprisingly long.

Strange.

Then it hits you: she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking just over your shoulder. Small, but crucial difference.

You glance back, heart skipping.

See, the thing about crowds at parties is they’re never still: bodies shift, swirl, rotate—and the flow has just turned, perfectly, to line you up with her. The light spins around to land on her, and there she is: Chaewon, now right behind you. The blue light slides across her face, casting her features sharply.

Fuck.

Something else’s off, too. Her eyes quiver—not a blink, more a microquake—under the light, with a look on her face you can't quite attribute to any emotion you've known. A glitch is the only way you can put it. But that thought quickly drops in priority because—

Amusement slips into Heejin’s eyes as she pushes past you, heading straight towards her. To utter something totally fucked, no doubt.

“Heyyyy, beautiful.” Drags the y out like it’s for show. “I was just telling him. Do you prefer fuckslu—”

“Alright, that’s enough out of you.” You don’t even remember deciding to push Heejin; your hands moved before you could think. The last thing you see before the crowd swallows her up is her body tilting, on a collision course with the floor.

Good thing the tiles are hard.

The press of bodies returns, but there’s an opening now.

Chaewon, standing there in an expensive dress, looking at you with an expression that says both curious and you’re-fucked-in-the-head. Which, okay. Fair.

The light hangs on her longer than it should.

“Why are you wearing a dress like that? You’re classing this shithole up.”

“I was expecting a…” She looks around, lips parted, searching for the right phrase. “Different kind of party.”

“One with less physical violence?”

“You could say that.” Her lips curl slightly. “Not that I’m particularly averse to it.”

She says it casually—like a throwaway line, an obvious extension, an aside of no particular importance.

You should walk away. You know how this night ends—with you passing out in the middle of nowhere. And you know what this girl is: nothing but trouble, wrapped tight in a 5’4” package.

But—seeing her now. All dolled up, perfect makeup, a pretty one-shoulder dress. Hair pulled back neat with a band. Sticks out in the middle of a dirty party like a flame flickering in smoke. The dress hangs criminally low off the other shoulder, showing off smooth collarbones—delicate, catch-the-light sharp. It ends right where it should, too, exposing pale thighs you can already imagine your fingers sinking into.

Goddamn if that isn’t an attractive fucking package.

“She was insane, by the way. Batshit crazy. Had it coming for a while.” You wave a hand vaguely in the direction of where you sent Heejin spiraling.

Her shoulders drop in a shrug. “I didn’t say a thing. Are you convincing me or yourself?”

“You gave me a look.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t the only one giving looks.”

It feels like another unholy cocktail was just poured down your throat; something sour twists in your gut. Oh, she’s got you. In the palm of her hand. In under a minute.

She’s a killer, that one.

“Shouldn't we find a better place to talk than dead center of the dance floor?”

She tilts her head, leaning in close. “Talking, is that what we're calling this?”

Honest hand to god, you don't even know what else this is.

Okay, maybe you’ve got some idea. Promises don’t count at parties. Not when the girl in front of you looks like that. Or something.

“Whatever it is.” You catch her wrist, pull her close—a sharp elbow slices through where she just stood. “Not the place.”

See, humans have definitions: a set of principles, rules. Little lines in the sand that make each identity (or the illusion of one) unique. Without those, people blur into each other. Everyone becomes one.

These definitions change, evolve over time. You're not who you were a year ago, or even yesterday, before you walked into Heejin’s room without knocking. (That’s one you’ll remember alright: always knock.)

One such definition you've carved from experience: nights like this—shady party, girl you’ve never talked to before and probably never will again—are never a good idea. It's a drink; alcohol, a numbing of something deeper. And when the high fades, the weight inside just settles heavier.

So you swear it off. No more drinks. Not a drop.

But what if a glass of scotch worth more than you'll make in a year—the kind you'd ruin just by holding—shows up? Yours to do with as you wish.

Oh, ruin it, you will.

Scene cuts. Fast-forward a few minutes. A secluded, dark corner; somehow, there's still one left that doesn’t reek of sex layered over alcohol and sweat. You're on your way to fix that problem.

The reel plays again, bolder now: your hands in her hair, hers all over your body. Lips sealed, your mouth tugging at her bottom lip, tongue teasing, teeth hovering just close enough to threaten a bite.

Except it’s not in your head anymore.

The scent of alcohol is sharp on her breath, but it only adds to her charm; luxure, if you will. Besides, with whatever toxins Heejin force-fed you, you’re probably not doing much better. Not that Chaewon seems to care, not when her dainty fingers are skating across your crotch, feeling your hardening response in real time.

Which is why it’s so jarring when she pulls back to ask, soft and almost playful: “What was she going to tell me?”

You shake your head, clear the static. “What?”

“Your friend?” She raises a brow; you give a reluctant nod. “Was telling me something before you football-tackled her. Just curious what it was.”

“You don't wanna know,” is all you manage.

“Quite the opposite, actually. I'm asking because I do wanna know.”

“And I'm telling you that you don't.”

She grabs your hand and presses your palm to the inside of her thigh, her skin cold against your fingers. Then she slides it up her curve, squeezing tighter with each inch.

“Look, we don’t even know each other’s names,” she reasons. You can find a better time to tell her that’s not completely true. “Just thought I heard something I liked.”

She squeezes again, like that’s supposed to make you more likely to give in. Which, okay. Fair.

“She was narrating a porn script. About how you’d be in bed.”

Chaewon raises her fingers in a little camera-cut rectangle, framing her own face in the center.

“Huh, interesting.” Her lips quirk. “Give me the screenplay.”

You didn't think it was possible to meet someone more fucked in the head than Heejin, but clearly, you were wrong.

“Starts with you on your knees,” you begin.

“Classic,” she says.

And you go on: ”You’re looking up at me with those pretty doe eyes, in nothing but a black bra and panties. Drool at the corner of your mouth, begging for my cock.”

She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “Begging, how?”

“Well, you know… all desperate, maybe,” you offer.

“Please,” Chaewon murmurs in the filthiest tone she can manage, “stuff your thick cock in my mouth. I can’t live without it.” Her eyelashes flutter a faux pout. “Something like that?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, something like that.”

“Continue.”

“Faced with begging that persuasive, I’d have to give in, right?”

Her palm presses firm against your crotch. “Obviously. Suspension of disbelief can only go so far.”

“So I wrap my hand around the back of your head, clutching your hair. In the movie, you like it rough. I push your mouth onto my cock in one go, make you swallow all of it.”

She bites her lip. “In the movie?”

“Uh-huh.” You gulp, flicking through your mind for more. “In the movie.”

She helps: “What about the camerawork? A nice angle of the spit dripping down to my tits would add texture.”

“A visual of said tits would help first.” Your hands snake back to her dress's zipper. “Bathroom? Anyone could walk in on the shoot here.”

Chaewon shrugs, lazy and amused. “Wherever you want. I don't care.”

One more cut. This one runs longer. Finding a bathroom at a party without puke all over it is about as hard as you’d expect, but you manage.

“Like I was saying—visual.” You bring down the zipper in one smooth go, and her dress falls to a puddle at her feet. There’s something ironic about a classy dress crumpled on a grimy bathroom floor, but no one’s here for the symbolism. Not your department.

Her boobs present themselves, perky and tight. The soft, creamy bits spilling from her bra make you want to lean in, nibble already. Her nipples are taut, showing faintly through the red fabric. You slide a lazy finger over one, brushing the nub.

“Good enough?” She tilts your chin up to meet her eyes.

“That works. More than, actually.”

Let your palm wrap around her boob, a mere thin cloth preventing skin contact, and squeeze—a soft moan escapes her lips.

“So, what's next?” Her tongue slips out and runs over her lip.

“Where were we? Oh yeah, the angle of spit dripping down onto your red bra—”

“Wasn't it black?” she cuts in, impatiently tapping her fingers on her thigh.

“Was it?”

“Last you said, yeah. Can't have continuity errors.”

“Definitely not. Post-production’ll have to take care of that.”

A flick of movement draws your eyes downwards—her fingers already slipped under her panties, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. Soft, wet sounds rise as her fingers slide against her pussy.

“What? Couldn't wait for the scene where we fuck?”

“You're stuck on the blowjob intro for half a fucking hour,” Chaewon snaps. “God forbid a girl gets herself off.”

“I wasn't the one pointing out continuity errors in a porno.” You blink.

“Can't we skip to a part where you eat me out or something?”

“No can do. Script says blowjob, then fucking.”

She sighs. “Of course, made for a specific gaze.”

“Maybe. But the director's strict on the vision. No going off-script.”

“Sounds very pretentious. Nobody likes pretentious movies.”

“Only if they don’t pull it off. And, well, after a while—when you see the filth people clap for, it's hard to take their opinions seriously.”

She exhales, amused. “Then at least get a move on.” With a quick twist of her hair, she drops to the floor.

“It was very specific about having you against a wall.” You take her wrist and guide her to the sink, pressing her down to her knees.

Just her knees on cold tiles, bathroom floor. Wall behind her.

First, she gets your zip undone, and you help her slide your pants and underwear down.

She spends a couple of seconds just looking. Not stroking, licking, slurping—all that will come in due time. For a few moments, her eyes stay locked on your cock like it’s the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

Her fingers wrap around your base. She spits—a sharp, wet sound—then uses her palm to smear it over your length, slow, firm strokes from tip to base, then back again.

Not wanting to miss out, her other palm slides up your thigh, grazing your balls. It’s gentle; massaging softly as she continues stroking you up and down.

Chaewon—her dress crumpled beside, in underwear too expensive for a setting like this—is someone who shouldn’t be sucking you off in a dimly lit party restroom, blown speakers pounding stupid bass through the walls.

But that’s exactly what she does next: parts her glossy lips, swallowing your tip first, her tongue flicking out to lap along your length. You trail a finger down her cheek, down the delicate line of her throat.

She’s one of those modern artworks—the kind that actually looks like art—marked Do Not Touch. But you’ll touch anyway. You let your fingers rest right at the hollow of her throat, cradling it between your index and middle fingers.

You tug her upward slightly, and her pupils dart up at you as she slobbers around your tip. She’s agonizingly slow, dragging her tongue in lazy licks, lathering you up even more. She keeps her gaze locked on yours, mouth working leisurely, her plush, pillowy lips rubbing all over your head.

Agonizingly slow. You’ve waited long enough. Your hand tightens in her hair, and you push her mouth down onto your cock. She’s the one who wanted to get a move on—it’s alright.

Chaewon’s mouth is soft and warm. Wetter than you could ever imagine. Drool spills down the corners, streaking her chin, smudging her makeup. Her tongue flattens and swirls around you. Eager. Precise.

You grip the sides of her head and press her upright against the wall, angling just right to thrust into that warm, tight hole.

It’s hard to tell with how busy they are multitasking right now, but you swear you catch the faintest curl of a smile on those spit-slicked lips. Oh, she’s planned this alright. Planned to get that cute little mouth fucked senseless. And who are you to deny her?

Her eyes flutter shut the first time you push, your tip pressing into the back of her throat. A sharp gag—but she steadies herself with one hand on your thigh.

She tilts her head back slightly, sinking deeper and deeper into the feeling of having her mouth fucked. Her fingers slip back below, a trail of slick stretching all the way to where the dress lies on the floor. How’s that for recurring symbolism.

Oh, it’s distinctly pornographic how she rubs circles under her panties while her mouth is getting thoroughly used. Those eyes tightly shut as she gives you moans that only grow louder—vibrating all over your cock. You'll give her artistic credit for that one.

There's already slick dripping down from your cock to your balls, but she's not satisfied with it. Not when she uses a free hand to catch the spit spilling from her chin and uses it to rub your balls, all soft and fondling. Like it’s the most important thing right now that you're properly pleasured.

You’ll give her credit for all of that.

Her knees shuffle around on the cold floor, one hand bracing against the sink, adjusting her height so that it's convenient for your cock to keep thrusting into her mouth.

An interruption: the set lighting gets dodgy. The yellow bulb behind you dims further—then stutters. Chaewon’s eyes glaze, a thin film rolls over her pupils as her face freezes momentarily.

You pause, getting on the floor beside her to ask what’s wrong. She blinks twice, says she’s okay, and once the light steadies, she’s back to leaning against the wall like nothing happened. And asks you to fuck her again. That, you'll do.

You’re lucky the thrum of the speakers makes it impossible to hear anything, with the rising sounds of a number of things—moans from the pair of you, wet, filthy gargles of your cock in her mouth, and the slick noise of her fingers on cunt.

You find your rhythm—faster pumps—and Chaewon matches it.

“You wanted this all along, didn’t you?” You tilt her chin up, forcing her eyes on you again. “Wanted to get your—”

Another push deep inside, her nose brushing against your waist, before you pull back to thrust again. “—mouth fucked by me till my cum is all over you.”

All she can give in response is a moan tinged with indignation—it’s crystal clear what the accusation is: as if you didn’t.

Her fingers rub faster, leaving you with no option but to match her pace. By now, she's basically using her pussy as throttle; speed control for how fast she wants to be fucked, knowing you'll follow without hesitation.

And when she drives it up to 11, there's no way you're lasting much longer.

“Fuck—Chaewon, I'm going to cum,” you tell, and she nods with a vigor that can only mean that she’s right there with you.

A soft pop, and she pulls her mouth off, lips glistening. Her palm takes over, stroking you with the same relentless pace, the tip hovering just over her face. Driving you closer to your edge—“do it on me,” she says, breathless, and you're not about to argue.

Those soft thighs clench—a trembling mess—on the floor, lips curling into an ‘O’ as she moans, louder than you thought was humanly possible. It gets completely drenched, her panties leak and spill a visible wetness on the tiles. That's when you release too.

Thick streaks land all across her face—cheeks, lips, hair. Her mouth, open and waiting, catches a good few too.

She smiles, panting, as her tongue flicks out to taste more from her cheeks. You collapse next to her on the ground, leaning against the wall. Spent.

“Tell Heejin the script feels screen ready,” she breathes.

The dim yellow light spreads softly across her hair, casting long shadows on her face—hiding, blurring her features—as she leans back with you, dazed. Cock-drunk dazed.

You can mark “getting a room to smell like sex” as done.

Another cut: the cleanup is of little interest. You also dumped your thoughts about definitions on her while helping wash her hair off. It was kind of an accident; you don't really want to talk about it.

Once you're done and the tap’s turned off, the bathroom settles into an eerie quiet. Sure, the party music still thumps faintly in the background. But it’s just that: background. Second nature now. What matters are the layers above it. And those are gone—until her dress, crumpled in the corner, starts buzzing like her juices just brought it to life.

“Look,” you say, “I thought we had a symbolism thing going on with the dress, but this is taking it too far.”

She brings her dress over to where you're sitting—a couch make-shifted out of a bathroom tub: you on the corner, her on the floor. You weren't the one who suggested this particular seating arrangement, but you’ll surely accept it.

“Relax. There’s a phone in it. Thought it was dead already, though. Dress with pockets—greatest invention of the 21st century.”

“Think the 20th century already got there. Probably even earlier.”

“You’ll be fun at parties.” Her eyes flick through her screen.

“I’d actually be a little offended if you don’t think that after all this.”

She closes her phone and puts it back in, shaking her head. “It’s a news notification.”

“Why don’t you turn those off?”

“Never bothered learning how to. Staying away from the settings app is one of my definitions.” The last word she says in a cheeky tone you're not sure you're a fan of.

“You don't have to use that word,” you offer, sheepish.

“I like it. I want to say it.” There's a twinkle in her eyes—sarcasm dressed up as something nice, you’d guess. “What's the story behind it?”

“Don't know. Found it gives me some semblance of a structure,” is what you'll say, and she'll believe you.

“That's no fun.” Maybe not agree, but she'll believe you.

You nod to the phone. “What breaking news was so important it had to interrupt our post-sex-pre-aftercare session?”

“Guess. If you get it in 2 tries, you can have my dress.”

“Why in the hell would I want your dress?” Never mind the part where she’d have to walk home naked. That's her problem.

“You were practically worshipping it earlier.”

“Doesn't mean I wanna keep it.”

Chaewon sharply taps her wrist. “Time's ticking.”

“I dunno. Two politicians having a dick measuring contest? Planet’s still on fire?”

“Our grandchildren will be married to…” She pauses, hoping for some show of interest. When it’s clear she's not getting any, she continues: “AI, apparently.”

“Like bots with AI?”

“The whole shtick. Marriage licenses and all.”

You scoff. “Yours won’t have to, with those genes. Mine might.”

“Not if I have any say in it,” she blurts, then looks down immediately.

“What?”

“Nothing. Would you marry an AI?”

“I’m not clinically insane, so no.”

“Why not? Imagine your favorite food cooked fresh, anytime you want. Can do a lot of things girls can’t.” It’s kind of hilarious the first thing she wants from a partner is instant food. Or worse: that she thinks you would.

“And girls can do a lot of things AI can’t.”

“Like what?”

“Like being able to kiss me without tasting like silicon.”

“Depends on what she’s been drinking.”

“Or not collapsing when she runs out of compute.”

“Humans need sleep, too.” Her hands pick up the rubber ducky next to you. “For what it's worth, I'd marry a bot. AI-powered fucking would go so hard.”

“What—I wasn't good enough?”

“You were. But not AI-optimized.” She squeezes the ducky on your face—squeak. The image is ridiculous.

“You're like, disqualified to be a human being.” You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Do you even think before saying stuff?”

“All my decisions are well thought out.”

“Like wearing that dress to this shithole?”

“Probably made it so hot for you.”

“Fluke,” you wave it off.

“I stick to it,” she volleys back. “What if I’m a bot? You wouldn’t even know.”

Your hand brushes the line of her neck—soft, sharp. As your finger drifts lower, she reaches behind and unhooks her bra with a snap. It slips off and lands on the tub floor. She takes your hands and presses against herself, filling both palms with her boobs.

“Well?” she asks. “What’s the conclusion?”

“If you’re a bot, whoever made you deserves a hell of a raise.”

She laughs. “All me, darling. Self-replicating AI.”

“Some human would have had to start you.”

“After enough copies, does that matter? For all practical purposes, I'm the maker of myself,” she says, indignant. Like you're robbing her of credit she's earned fair and square.

“That's like saying the mom's the only parent because it's been nine months since the dad was involved.” You grab the ducky from her hand and squeeze it in her face. It makes a different sound for you. Deeper, a little ragged.

“No, it's like saying your great-great-grandfather doesn't count—because you probably don't even know his name.” She snatches the ducky back and presses it again; her old sound returns. Her head tilts, trying to make sense of it.

“So somewhere along the way, the start stops mattering.”

“Like somewhere along tonight, you stopped resisting and gave in. After that, didn't matter what you were before.” Her hands shift grip, closer to how you held it. Your version of the sound comes out.

“You didn't have to point that out.”

“I know.” Her lips curl into a smile, little puzzle solved. “I just wanted to, it's like a modern version of Ship of Theseus.”

“How so?”

“I mean, how far can you replace and reinvent until the original just doesn’t matter? Same dilemma, new packaging.” She tosses the ducky aside, irrelevant now.

You squint an eye. “I can kinda see it.”

“Maybe I’m reaching,” she adds, softer.

“This whole night's been reaching.” You throw your head back against the wall.

“Cheers to that.” She lifts an imaginary glass and clinks it gently against yours, just as invisible. “I could go for a drink.”

“Drink me.”

“Any more and I'll be less me and more you.” A flicker in her tone; something undiscernible.

“What's even you?”

Her voice tightens. “What do you mean?”

“We've been talking a while, and all you've done is play one role or the other. Porn muse. AI evangelist.”

“Isn't that what everyone does, play roles?” She forms a little circle with her thumb and index finger, spinning it through the air in slow motion.

“Maybe. But I think I know less of you now than before we met. And what gang signs are you throwing?”

“You've not been paying attention. I’m swirling my glass,” she says, mock-offended. “It’s almost empty—go fetch me a refill.”

“Enough pussyfooting. I want to know the real you.” You mime grabbing her glass and smashing it against the tub. “Surely you don’t talk in riddles 24/7.”

“Ouch.” She rubs her hand, as if something stung her. “Seriously, I’ve been real all night. I'm an open book, ask whatever you want.”

You pause for a second, thinking. “What do you… do for work?”

She snorts, like that question personally insulted her. “Come on. That’s like, the worst way to get to know someone.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You used a nice word earlier: definitions. You think the least interesting part of someone's day is one of those?”

“That's the part that keeps you alive.”

“But the rest is what you stay alive for.”

“Not everyone hates their job.”

“Not the point.” She crosses her legs, resting her hand on her knee. “It’s an obligation; would you do those eight hours if there wasn’t a paycheck waiting?”

“No,” you admit. “I have to meet metrics at my job.”

Her shoulders rise in a shrug. “These metrics, would anyone give a shit about them in a vacuum?”

“Maybe it’s not a definition, more of a side effect.”

“Yeah. And even if the passion’s there—buried under all that overhead—there's better ways to reach it than that question.”

“Try this on for size: you like parties?”

She smiles. “Do you?”

“You said I could ask anything.”

“You can—and I’ll answer. But you first.”

“Not really,” you tell. “People act like decency’s optional the second the lights go out.”

“That much was clear the moment I saw you.”

Unnecessary pretense, you think. “Then why ask?”

“Curious how you’d frame it. You chose to put the blame outside. And if I may, we're not being so decent ourselves.” Chaewon dramatically motions to the various states of undress you two are in.

“My bad for asking.”

“Not a dig. Just saying—this actually says something.”

“Point taken. So I asked, and I haven't gotten anything out of you yet.”

“Parties are okay.” She unhooks the handshower from the handle and points it at her wrist, thoughtful. “But I could do without the striking lights.”

“Really? You seemed fine out there.”

A soft breath. “Not paying attention isn’t new to you, is it?”

“That one’s a dig.”

“Not really. Not being hyper-aware isn't a character flaw. Most people aren't.”

“Yeah, not everyone’s wired like you, huh?” Your case is only helped by the way she's fixated with the shower head streaming water at her wrist.

“You can put it that way, but I'm not sure you're anyone’s poster child for normal either.” Her other hand lands on your thigh, as if to ground you from any delusions.

You’ll kick yourself in the shin every time you remember you told her about definitions.

She poses: “My turn. You like your friend?”

“What do you mean—like?” You raise a brow, suspicious.

“As in, like them as a person. Not in a funny way—just, you think they're cool. Sort of.”

“Heejin’s fucking intolerable. At times. Most of the time.”

“Why hang out with her then?”

“Dunno. She's my friend. You don't ditch your friends just because they're annoying.”

“You totally can, actually,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “I have, plenty of times.”

“Yeah, who am I kidding—I probably have too.” You point the shower down, and water spills onto her legs, sliding past her ankles on the way out. Somewhat of a ritual. Just not a clean one. Chaewon’s probably the kind to think none of them are.

A ritual needs some truths too, and you'll supply them: “But it’s not all bad. She dragged me out to this party, and now I'm here. Would probably be holed up with a movie otherwise.”

“Doesn't sound too bad. That's my preferred way of spending Friday nights, too.”

“Why here, then?”

“Active effort to put myself out there—whatever that's supposed to mean.” She exhales sharply. “Thought I’d done enough of that in college.”

“If you did, you wouldn't have to now.”

“Well, enough for me. Couldn't be arsed to do more.”

“Fair,” you offer, soft. “Was expecting your question to be how I knew your name.”

“Saw Heejin talking to the only person I knew here earlier. Wasn't too hard to figure out.” She flips through the shower settings, going through her post-sex-pre-aftercare-waterplay-ritual in different flavors. “Besides, would've been a little hypocritical of me. After that whole rant on bad questions.”

“Don't like getting caught being two-faced?”

She shifts on the floor slightly. “Nobody does. I'd like to think I'm consistent.”

“Sure. Though you can never know that for a fact.”

“Says who?”

“God—”

Chaewon cuts in: “He isn't telling me anything.“

“Gödel.”

“Who? Actually—scratch that, don't wanna know.” She raises her palm at you, like a stop sign.

“That won’t make it any less applicable to you.”

“Uh-huh,” she says and squints her eyes at you, considering if your next words are worth the trouble. “Fine, I'll bite. Who is it?”

“A math—guy. Proved no system can show itself to be consistent (among other tragic facts about math; they hated him). If math can't know it’s consistent, what luck do you have?”

“Shoot for the stars, land on the moon. Yada yada.”

“Wasn't it the other way around?” You glance at the wall—squiggly green patterns ripple across a blue background. “Shoot for the moon, land on the stars.”

She shakes her head. “That doesn't even make sense—the moon’s closer.”

“A lot of sayings don't make sense.” You point the water towards your own feet. The soft flow on skin feels quite relaxing.

“Like what?”

“Like… rules were meant to be broken. I think that's the last thing the folks making the rules had in mind.”

Her lips curl into a half-smile. “You're breaking your own rules by being here.”

The water suddenly turns harsh. “Thanks for the second reminder.”

“Your turn—go.” She flicks the nozzle, switching it to a concentrated burst—no warning.

You flinch, fling the head away, and kill the tap. “You know what? I think we should get going.” You don't think that—not yet—but two can play the game of saying things just for the reaction.

“It was just starting to get fun.” Her lips pull into a fake pout.

“You'd say that.”

“You’re dying to ask something,” she clocks. “Go on.”

You grip the tub edge, moving around a bit. “Did you actually, uh, mean what you said earlier?” you mumble.

“Darling, I said a lot of things tonight.”

“About being into physical violence.”

“Oh god, no,” she says. “That was a little two-for-one special: say something clever and fuck with you a little. Couldn't pass it up.” That twinkle in her eye is back again; you hate it.

“You should be careful going around saying stuff like that,” you warn.

“I know who to say it to. The kind that’d flinch harder than myself.”

As if right on cue, the light behind you flickers again—hitting her right in the eye. She flinches—barely. A jerk you can miss if you blink. Her eyes quiver for a split second, teetering between shut and just open.

You raise a hand, shielding her eyes. She freezes. Only when the light settles do you lower it.

“Could barely tell it affected you, to be honest,” you admit.

“I've had practice. Only changed my reaction on the outside, though.”

“Let’s switch places.” You get up and offer her a hand. “It’s worse on your side, when it happens.”

“We don’t need to.”

“Just come here.” You grab her hand, palm and fingers smooth against yours—cold to the touch—and she stands up. After helping her to the tub's edge, you drop to the floor. “You could raise a hand, block it, y’know?”

“How would I have practice then?” Chaewon pauses for a second. “It’s not worth it.”

“Lights always do that to you?”

The tub floor is gross, you think about pointing it out—but she's been sitting on it for the better part of the night without any complaints. So you keep it to yourself.

“Ever since I remember.” Her gaze wanders up behind you. “Went to a doctor once. Got some tests done. Said it’s inherent and just something I should avoid,” she says without missing a beat. Like a script, rehearsed—an actress playing her part. Not too well, not too convincing; you can’t buy in totally yet. It’s a written line, meant to be heard, maybe even pitied. But to be believed, it needs more practice. Or less.

“None of that’s true, is it?”

“It's partly true. That’s the trick.”

“Which part?”

“I did go to a doctor. And they did say there’s nothing they can do about it.” A darkness pools in her eyes.

“So it wasn't always there.”

“No.”

“Since when?” you press.

For the first time all night, her replies aren’t so quickfire. “It’s not that interesting,” just doesn’t have the same wit; the cleverness you’ve gotten used to.

“You wanted good questions. This feels like a definition; the making of one.”

“It’s really not,” she insists.

You'll try a hail-mary: “You know another, timeless packaging of Ship of Theseus? Lying about yourself—so well, so long—you forget who you were to begin with.” You lean back, giving her space to think. “When do you reach that point?”

She stares at you blankly. A pause, a sigh, and then:

“You know you’re kind of an asshole, right? I used to like them, actually. The lights. My family thought I was nuts.” She laughs, dry—there’s no humor in it. “But they didn't mind it too much; it helped me sleep. At our old place, when I was young. I used to lie on my bed at night, watching the lights flickering from sirens through the window.

The sirens used to zoom past, lights entering one way—draping my room in a faint blue—and leaving from the other, as fast as they came. Used to have the best fun counting them, too. See, life was just that simple back then. But I could never get past 40 without falling asleep.”

“Of course,” she adds, quieter, “that was before that night. When the blue sirens just kept going. Crossed 40, and I got so excited. Clutched the pillow so hard it almost tore—I’d never made it that far. It kept going. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. My heart picked up with the numbers.”

A small, uneasy shock crawls up her legs—they start shaking.

“Then I realized they’d stopped at our house.”

A piercing banging on the door interrupts whatever she was going to say next.

“Occupied?” shouts a sharp, annoying voice. “Ugh. Just puke and fucking weirdos jacking off in here, I swear.”

“Is that—” Chaewon starts.

You finish: “Yeah. Heejin herself, in the flesh. Who else could it be?”

She presses her palm to her forehead. “My head's spinning. I’m getting dizzy.”

“You okay? Need some water?” The pupils in her eyes go grey, and slowly go deeper in the white. “Or meds?” you add, concerned.

“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Her voice says otherwise—faint, fraying. Like she’s losing control of herself. “I just thought—the headaches were quiet for a while.”

“You’ve had them before?”

She nods, slow. “Headaches—noises—visions. I need to leave.”

“I'll come with you,” you say, and her eyes dart up at you, an uneasy look surfacing. “Till you're okay, if you'd like.”

A soft breath escapes her lips. “Alright… thanks.”

“If I don’t hear a response, I’m kicking the door down,” Heejin barks from outside.

“Is she gonna be a problem?” Chaewon picks up her dress from the floor, trying to straighten it out.

You grip her shoulder, steadying. “Get dressed, okay? I’ll deal with her.”

Your fingers graze the doorknob. One last look behind.

Her hands are gripping her head tightly, knees drawn in. Curling inward, like she wants to disappear. Unfortunately for her, she’s still here…

Closing the door behind you, you step back into the filth of the party on its last few breaths. The bathroom, somehow, felt cleaner. Music’s back to head-pounding loud; you miss the softer hum inside.

Heejin’s eyes widen on seeing you. “Thank fuck. I was looking—”

“What do you want?” you ask, words rushing out.

“What were you doing in there?” She squints, suspicious.

You let out a long sigh. “I was with her.”

“So I was right all along—bathroom floor, knees, everything—”

“Whatever you want, make it quick.”

“Someone fucking smashed my car’s rear view mirror. We need to leave.”

“Then go, take the car and go. What the hell are you calling me for?”

She takes a step back. “You’re a dick. I came with you. Figured I should be the one getting you back.”

“No. Tell the truth: you’re too fucking drunk to drive.”

Heejin presses her lips together, frowning. “What are you being such a dick for?”

“Because Chaewon’s—sick. In there.” You jab a finger over your shoulder. “Do you mind?”

“In where?” She leans in to look past you, brows furrowing.

“In…” You turn around to find—

The bathroom door hangs wide open, creaking. Your eyes sweep the room—tub, sink, toilet, floor—there’s nobody inside.

There’s nobody inside.

One last cut: It's something you’d rather forget. (You can't.) You roam the dance floor, hallways, drinks tables; they’re all dead—of what, you're not quite sure. Searching.

Music's replaced by a high, unbearable ringing. Lights burn brighter, sharper, piercing—you can feel them enter your eyes. Yes, they enter from your eyes, boring through the soft flesh of your brain, then drilling a hole through your skull on the way out. If you place a hand behind you, you swear you can catch it in your palm and stop the light—but you're wrong; it cuts through your hand, too. 

You can't stop it.

People look different, look like nobody. Faces—aren't. Faces aren't—anything. The lights turn every expression into the same; everyone looks like everybody. But none of them are the one you're searching for: hers.

The only one you wanna see. The only one missing.

This is the longest cut of them all. Time stretches, snaps, folds. You couldn’t put a number to it if you tried. All you know is: it’s long.

It ends out on the lawn, between wet, scrunching blades of grass.

Sit down and look up. There are no lights here; not for others, that is. But in your eyes, they're more striking than ever. Dancing in the front of your eyes when open, etching themselves in the back of your eyelids when closed—you have no escape, no solace. They’ve made themselves home, manifesting vivid shades of the feelings curled deep in the folds of your mind. If anything, the visions have to be them. If anything.

Someone did say the color of dread is blue.

They’ll be your stars tonight; they’ll be your muse—what you look at to feel things you can’t elsewhere. A cocktail of emotions—mostly dark, base being a stunning flavor of regret.

If you did a post-mortem, you’d trace it back to the first mistake: coming to this party. You'll need to do some re-defining—stop listening to Heejin’s suggestions. Fuck it, maybe push her out of your life once and for all. You knew this night was a bad idea.

Ask her and she'll say you're living life like a lunatic, chained to your concepts. (About that? She might be right.)

The second misstep: breaking your own rule. Maybe it was the drink forced on you; maybe she was so magnetic that man-made barriers stopped mattering. But something, something, made you lose control. Like Chaewon said. She was right: she said a lot of things. Deflections, quick wit, smoke and mirrors. Until the first time she said something strange.

She'll be less her and more you. What if the reverse was true, too?

The excuses can go on. So, when you wake up tomorrow, cut out the part that said it's okay to break your definitions, because that's what started this. Make that a definition.

But—if you were willing to break one definition… there's nothing stopping you from breaking another.

Then what? Make a new one? Swear it'll hold? Swear you will?

You can draw one more line in the sand. You'll end up watching yourself step over it.

If you can break one, you can break them all. The underlying assumption doesn't hold.

It's not consistent. Not anymore.

It has collapsed.

And whatever you’ll face is punishment for the same.

—

“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect, he ceases to love.”

Fyodor Dostoevsky

To be continued.

Part 1 of definitions - Ultraviolette

—

Heejin’s bloodshot eyes stay locked ahead, her palm clenched around the top of the steering wheel. A glance at the cracked rearview mirror—there’s a police car tailing, signaling her to pull over. She groans loud, annoyed, and steers to the side.

The cruiser stops behind her. A cop steps out, mutters something under his breath, and trudges up to her car.

“I swear I’m not drunk,” she protests as she rolls the window down. “I wasn’t even supposed to be driving. I had a partner—he just disappeared. And I spent a fucking fortune financing this car. I’m not leaving it at a party where it'll get trashed six ways to hell by tomorrow morning,” she finishes, flippant.

The officer reaches into his bag to pull out a breathalyzer. “Ma'am, I'm gonna need you to blow into this.”

It takes roughly three warnings. Each one a little sharper: “Last chance. Refusal to take the test will result in arrest and license suspension—I need you to breathe into this now.”

Only then does she sigh, roll her eyes, and finally blow into the device.

Nothing is said when the machine blinks with the result; he just flashes her the screen. She doesn't understand the numbers, but the implication’s obvious. So she sighs again, and steps out of the car.

A cold breeze stirs her hair. She turns—nearby, a woman hurries past, head low. Deliberately hidden, like she's trying not to be there. Which, of course, only draws Heejin’s attention more. The way she's dressed doesn't help.

A soft, elegant—though slightly crumpled—dress hangs off one shoulder, flowing down to her knees. It looks familiar. Heejin’s definitely seen it before. Where exactly? She’s too drunk to recall.

Tucked in the dark corner of the street, a phone booth sits waiting. Behind it, a shop. Or at least, what she thinks is a shop. A sign reads Sweet Decorations.

But there’s no cashier. No counter. In fact, there's only one shelf standing between the place being a shop—or just an empty room. All the walls are glass, the door too—like it’s saying: look at me, I’ve got nothing to hide.

The light inside is a dim, sterile white. It's not flickering; steady, actually—but it feels like it might go out any second and take the shop with it. It's been on too long. Far too long.

The shelf is clear, like everything else. Just big enough for two teddy bears. Still in plastic. Unused.

Her eyes dart back to the phone booth. It’s occupied now. The woman slips a coin into the receiver, dials a number, and presses the phone to her cheek—gripping it like she’d die if she let go.

One ring, two.

Two slim fingers lift from the receiver, brushing her hair back. For a moment, a sliver of her face is visible—before the strands fall forward again.

Heejin catches a glimpse—and lurches forward. She tries to run to her, but the cop’s hand clamps down hard on her shoulder, locking her in place.

“Hey—you,” she shouts into the wind.

Three, four.

The next motion unfolds in three acts, but feels like one, really:

Chaewon’s grip on the phone slowly loosens, till it slips from her grasp and is en route to a free fall to the floor. The cord is too long to matter.

Her eyelids flutter, and she collapses into a heap on the floor, cheek pressed flush against the cold concrete.

The phone hits the ground—a blunt thud. It rattles once, twice, then settles right beside her ear. She stares into the distance; eyes—lifeless.

Five, six.

An ambulance has been dispatched to your approximate location. Please look for the blue sirens.